


Ill-famed and Suspected

by Elspethdixon, Seanchai



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire, Victim Blaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-10-20
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:55:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1383196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elspethdixon/pseuds/Elspethdixon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanchai/pseuds/Seanchai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Les Amis de l'ABC have acquired a new member, one who's friendly, good-looking, and dedicated to the cause.  Unfortunately for Grantaire, he turns out to be nowhere near as pleasant as he seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Patriotic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/856894) by [EliseEtcetera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliseEtcetera/pseuds/EliseEtcetera). 



> Original prompt on the Les Miserables kink meme: http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/9761.html?thread=1348129#t1348129

“Barrot?” Enjolras sniffed. “He’s a monarchist who gives lip service to the good of the people while still clinging to the king’s coattails.”

Combeferre frowned in that slightly-disappointed fashion that generally meant that he was about to ask Enjolras to ‘be reasonable.’ “He’s far more our friend than our enemy.” 

When Enjolras merely sneered at this, he added, “Even you must admit that he would be improvement over Perier,” referring to the minister who had sent Marshal Soult and the army into Lyon to suppress the silk weavers’ revolts all the while pretending that it wasn’t a legitimate expression of workers’ grievances caused by economic distress but instead some kind of imaginary plot to restore Charles X to the throne. “Small reforms are better than no reforms.”

“No,” their newest member put in, “small reforms are politicians’ way of keeping the mob pacified by pretending to listen to them while truly preserving the status quo.”

“Precisely.” Enjolras stabbed a finger triumphantly in Maximilian’s direction. “You see, Combeferre? Our new comrade agrees with me.”

Maxime Vilette - he had adopted the name Maximilian in honor of Robespierre - had begun attending their meetings roughly a month before. Already a committed republican, he had been forced to seek out new compatriots after the club he had previously belonged to, associated with the _Société des Amis du Peuple_ , had broken apart upon Raspail and Blanqui’s arrests. He was a young man of about twenty-five, slightly taller than Enjolras, with blond good looks and an amiable manner. Properly named Maxime de Vilette, he was the eldest son of a noble family and technically entitled to the title of comte, but he chose not to use it, even going so far as to drop the participle from his name, as Courfeyrac did. 

“Of course he does,” Combeferre said. “Only total dismantling of our current system will do for our Monsieur Vilette.”

Maximilian took the remark as an excuse to expound upon the benefits of socialism, which, as a good Blanquist, he was as firm a believer in as Combeferre was in the virtues of universal education. “It will never be possible under our citizen king,” he went on, saying the words ‘citizen king’ with a sneer Enjolras felt entirely in charity with. “The only answer is a coup d’etate by those few of us who are prepared to resist. Then power can be handed over to the people.”

Enjolras frowned, sitting forward in his chair. Maximilian’s heart was in the right place, but, “There I must disagree. The people as a whole need to rise up in support of the revolution or it won’t work. The people _are_ the republic, they must be involved. It’s already happening,” he added. “They’ve risen in Lyon, and the national guard sided with the people and joined them, for all that Perier and the army put a stop to it.”

“It must happen soon.” Feuilly put in. “The spirit of revolution is spreading across Europe. Belgium has rebelled against their tyrannical ruler and Poland is trying to throw off the chains of Russia, for all that our France refuses to help them.”

Maximilian shook his head. “It’s more complicated than that,” he told Feuilly in a friendly tone. “France cannot afford to court the enmity of Russia, and doing so would only worsen her prospects for change. Even helping Belgium got us more of Perier in power; we would have done better to leave them to it.”

Enjolras couldn’t think how to answer that; responding to Belgium’s call for aid had been the only right and moral course of action, but it had, as Maximilian said, also provided an excuse to keep Perier in power.

Feuilly would likely have responded hotly, but Maximilian cut him off.

“I know you’ve studied the matter as much as you can, but you underestimate its complexity, as I said. France must look to her own interests first.” 

He’d made no friend there, Enjolras thought, as Feuilly stomped off to join Grantaire and Bahorel at one of the Musian’s other tables, where the two of them appeared to be building some kind of structure out of glasses and wine bottles. Everyone knew how Feully felt about his mother’s homeland.

Of course, Maximilian was new, he reminded himself. And not everyone understood that the fight for liberty was universal; their newest member was too focused on France’s need to look any further, and France’s need grew more obvious by the day.

“I wouldn’t question Feuilly’s knowledge of Poland,” Combeferre said mildly. “He’s made a special study of it.”

Feuilly flopped gracelessly down in the chair beside Bahorel, swaying sideways out of range with the skill of long practice when the other man attempted to elbow him in the ribs.

Bahorel made some remark that prompted a burst of laughter from Grantaire, and for a moment, mirth transformed Grantaire’s face so that he looked almost like another man, someone bright and charming and unexpectedly appealing.

It was slightly disconcerting, and Enjolras hurriedly looked away before Grantaire could catch him staring and make mock of him.

“I’m sure he has studied hard,” Maximilian was saying. “But we were speaking of Barrot…”

***

With great concentration, Jehan recited a fragment of the ode he was working on, addressed to an indifferent mistress. Not his mistress, precisely, he explained, for he did not currently have one, but more the _idea_ of a mistress.

When he got no response, he poked Grantaire with the stem of his pipe, frowning. “Are you listening to me?”

Grantaire leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, and blew out a long stream of sweet-scented opium smoke. “You must find another audience for your lyrics,” he said, after some little time had passed. “There’s no use speaking of romance and melancholy to one who’s already grown sick of them.”

“Make a mock of me, then,” he shrugged. “Only tell me what you think. I wish to capture the passion of love and the despair it engenders, and the seeking of the soul for an object of devotion even if it be yet a symbol.”

Grantaire snorted, nearly choking himself for a moment on the smoke. “A lot of stuff,” he sneered, when he had his breath back. “But I should not be surprised. I know what you romantics are like. To be Chateaubriand, or nothing!”

“One can be a royalist and still write brilliant novels,” Jehan pointed out mildly. It was difficult to be annoyed by anything after half a pipe of opium, even Grantaire’s best attempts to be obnoxious.

“Don’t let our noble leader catch you saying that,” Grantaire returned.

“Enjolras is many things, but he is not a literary critic.” He wasn’t even sure if Enjolras read poetry or novels, having never seen him with anything other than Republican newspapers or Buonarroti’s history of the Conspiracy of Equals. Thinking about it, Jehan couldn’t even say what the other man had come to university to study; whatever it was, he had set it aside to study Revolution instead.

Grantaire shook his head. “Men like him do not admire art, they inspire it. Did Cleisthenes write poetry, or Epaminondas any plays?” He gestured with the pipe, sending smoke trailing through the air. “No, his works of art were Leuctra and Mantinea.” 

Jehan patted out the spark that had drifted down to singe a tiny pinprick in his bedclothes, and tugged the pipe from Grantaire’s grasp. The other man rambled on, about art and revolution and the impermanence of both, and possibly about the way sunlight gleamed on Enjolras’s hair; he had stopped really listening sometime around the description of the classical purity of the brushstrokes in Delacroix’s Death of Sardanapalus (“There is art that reflects reality for you. Lust and brutality in the foreground and decadence in the background. And he’s called a genius for some mawkish tribute to a revolution that changed nothing.”).

Jehan drew on the nearly-exhausted pipe again and then set it aside on the wash stand that was his bedroom’s only other piece of furniture. He closed his eyes for a moment, his head spinning pleasantly, and then opened them to find Grantaire listing sideways, still talking.

Jehan tugged him down to lie with his head in his lap, so that they were sprawled on the mattress together, no longer in any danger of falling off. For a few minutes, or possibly longer, he lay there, Grantaire’s head a heavy weight on his stomach and his voice a distant background noise, and contemplated the stanza form of his ode. Ought it to be irregular? Or perhaps not an ode at all, but something more classical, or rather, _less_ classical, one of the medieval forms.

Sometimes the most difficult thing about poetry was not keeping to form, but choosing one.

Grantaire’s hair was thick and curly, almost wiry, and sprang back into shape after being flattened. It was curiously hypnotic.

Grantaire broke-off midway through a remark about which café in the Latin Quarter served the best coffee, with some tenuous connection to the slave trade and none at all to art, and blinked up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Your hair is all funny,” Jehan informed him. “It won’t do what it’s supposed to.”

“It matches the rest of me,” Grantaire said, with what might have been false gravity, and might have been real. “What was I talking about?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and since it was the best way of making Grantaire stop talking, leaned down and kissed him.

“Oh,” Grantaire said, when he pulled back. “Are we doing that?”

A few lazy caresses were all Jehan could summon the energy for. The opium had filled him with a pleasant lassitude, making it seem unimportant that Grantaire wasn’t the imagined delicate-but-remote female object of his romantic fantasies, and robbing the desire that his warm weight in Jehan’s lap was nevertheless stirring of any real urgency.

They never spoke of these encounters afterwards, or even really acknowledged what was happening while they were occurring. It wasn’t a true communion of body and spirit as a man would have with his mistress, but it was… comfortable. Friendly. And with nothing at stake but a few moments of half-drowsy pleasure, he didn’t even blush.

When, after relaxing sleepily into Jehan’s arms, Grantaire sighed something that sounded a lot like Enjolras’s name, he discretely pretended not to have heard.

***

Another meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC was over, his friends had dispersed, and Grantaire was left staring into his wine glass and wondering once again what he was doing there.

He had been as ardent a believer in equality and the universal rights of man as any, once, but then he had grown up and looked around himself and realized that as nice as those ideals – as any ideals – sounded, they were unattainable in real life, crumbling and tarnishing under the weight of reality. Men acted in their own self-interest, unless they were saints or fools.

His friends were very likely both, and their naïve idealism was doomed. If their efforts on behalf of republicanism ever accomplished anything, it would only be to get them arrested and tried as insurrectionists.

He drained the rest of his glass and was pouring himself another when he caught sight of Maximilian Vilette still sitting at one of the tables across the room, absorbed in a stack of notes.

“Vilette, my friend,” he called out, before he could reflect on it and consider that the other man might perhaps wish to be left alone to read or study, “come and have a drink with me. I have a full bottle and no one to share it with.”

Maximilian looked over at him with his eyebrows raised, seeming surprised to be thus addressed. Then he smiled, folded up his papers and stuck them inside his coat, and came over to take a seat beside Grantaire.

“Ah, that’s more like it.” Grantaire poured him a glass and held it out, careful not to let any of the wine slop over the edge. “You seem so serious-minded a fellow that I thought you would refuse.”

Maximilian accepted the glass and lifted it in a toast before taking a sip. “Oh, I would never refuse such a generous offer.”

Half a bottle later, he had unbent sufficiently to begin discussing politics and literature (he showed the good sense to agree that Julian Sorel was an idiot and that Jehan’s beloved _Sorrows of Young Werther_ was sentimental tripe) and his own experiences with Paris, which city he, unlike most of the young students in the Latin Quarter, had lived in nearly all his life.

Maximilian was proving not quite as good a drinking companion as Bahorel, who could always be counted upon to start an entertaining fight, nor the ever-cheerful Bossuet and Joly, but better than Feuilly, who had to keep sober workingman’s hours, and better by a long shot than Enjolras, whom Grantaire had never seen drunk and probably never would. He wouldn’t lower himself that way, would likely see it as base and beneath him and a waste of time. 

What was it about Enjolras that made the most ludicrous sentiments sound like divine wisdom when coming from his lips? 

He ought to resent him for making him want to believe them, but he couldn’t even do that, so firmly ensnared was he. Every once in a while, when Enjolras was truly fired up with conviction as he ranted about yet another injustice or talked about the Republic he believed in the way some men believed in god, Grantaire found himself just as caught up by his enthusiasm as the rest of them.

It only lasted for a moment, and then he would come to his senses again and feel even more hollow and disgusted with the world than before, but to feel something that strongly again, something that wasn’t self-disgust or loneliness or boredom, was more addictive than opium or wine, and Grantaire had never had any self-control.

“Everyone comes to Paris full of bright hopes and expectations,” he said, as roundabout answer to Maximilian’s latest comment. “I myself was going to be a great artist, and spite my father with my success.”

Maximilian smiled a little. “My own father hasn’t received me at home since I stopped styling myself the Vicomte de Villete. He’d probably cut me off without a penny, if he did not fear it would make him look a petty skinflint to his neighbors.”

“And so you get all the satisfaction of a break with your family and three hundred years of aristocratic privilege, without the pain of feeling it in your pocketbook. Let us hope your father continues to value the public appearance of being a doting pater familias over his royalist principles.” He wasn’t sure himself if he meant that to be sincere or critical. Preserving some slim hope of reconciliation with his parents likely meant more to Maximilian than he let on; the total loss of all familial ties left a man cut-off and adrift, defendant entirely upon the generosity of friends to satisfy the need for companionship.

Who knew that better than he did, the jester and hanger-on of a group of men who, if they ever stopped to think about it, would realize how little he had in common with them?

He poured himself another glass and took a long swallow, washing the bitterness out of his mouth before he had time to taste it.

“Let us hope,” Maximilian echoed. Was he irritated with him? He seemed as if he might be. People generally were when Grantaire started talking.

“I talk too much,” he said, by way of both explanation and excuse. “You needn’t take it to heart; no one else does. They have all learned better by now that to mark anything I say after the second bottle.”

Mostly that was a blessing, because Grantaire said a great many things that he didn’t actually mean. Once he got going, either drinking or talking, it was generally impossible to stop himself; the words just spilled out until someone told him to stop. If it stung a little to be told to quiet himself, it was also the only way to make him cease being a nuisance to others.

He found himself explaining as much to Maximilian, and then confessing his greatest worry about his friends – not that they would finally see him for what he was, because that was inevitable, but that they would finally see the world around them for what _it_ was and their own efforts to improve it for the exercise in futility that they were. His dread of seeing the reality of failure crush Courfeyrac’s almost kitten-like enthusiasm, turn Combeferre with his endless faith in the potential of humanity into a cynic like himself when he finally was disappointed once too often, of seeing Enjolras’s fire burn out – and Maximilian nodded sympathetically and poured him another glass, and another. 

Grantaire mostly lost track of the rest of the evening after that.

The first thing that registered when he awoke was the headache. It was worse than usual, pounding intensely enough to make him feel nauseous.

He closed his eyes and lay still, willing himself not to be sick. He was in his own lodgings, the cramped, single room he rented from a middle-aged landlord thankfully tolerant of late payment, which was generally a positive sign. He’d woken in worse places.

Most of the previous evening was a blank. He remembered drinking with Maximilian, and then stumbling home through the streets, while he tries to string together words in the correct order to tell the other man where he lived. He had no clear memory of reaching home, though obviously he had, but he vaguely recalled someone, presumably Maximilian, pulling his boots off.

Nice of him, Grantaire thought. It would have been even nicer if he’d paused to smother Grantaire with his pillow before leaving and spared him the necessity of waking up at all, but one couldn’t have everything.

Why was the water pitcher on the other side of the room? Usually he remembered to leave it by the bed so it would be near to hand when he woke up.

No, he’d broken it last week by tripping over it and had to buy a new one, which he’d carefully placed atop the washstand where he couldn’t fall over it when getting in and out of bed. Stupid of him. Drinking so much that he made himself ill was also stupid, and he told himself, once again, that he would remember to stop before he reached that point next time.

The sheets were twisted around him, damp with sweat even though the room was cold. Grantaire made a face and levered himself up, swallowing hard as the room swayed around him and his stomach lurched. Moving intensified the pain in his head.

The chamber pot was still under the bed where it belonged, which saved him from having to be sick on the floor.

He sagged back to the mattress afterward, feeling only slightly better for emptying his stomach, and belatedly realized that he was naked.

He didn’t usually manage to take his clothes off before succumbing to the twin influences of alcohol and Morpheus. No wonder he was cold.

He pulled the clammy sheets back up over his shoulders and told himself that he would get up and get some water to wash the taste out of his mouth in a minute.

When he woke up again, the angle of sunlight coming in through the window declared silently that it was afternoon, and his mouth was so dry that the thirst was even worse than the lingering headache.

It wasn’t until he was standing naked next to the wash basin, after he’d used the chamber pot – for its intended purpose this time – and finally gotten the drink of water he’d promised himself that he noticed the fresh, red bruises on his neck and the inside of his thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The silk weavers' revolt in Lyons mentioned in the first scene is discussed on wikipedia [here](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canuts_Revolt#Insurrection).
> 
> \- Eugene Delacroix's most famous painting, "Liberty Leading the People," was painted to commemorate the July Revolution of 1830. The significantly more salacious Delacroix painting Grantaire rhapsodizes about to Jehan can be seen here: http://www.artble.com/artists/eugene_delacroix/paintings/the_death_of_sardanapalus
> 
> \- [Cleisthenes](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cleisthenes), called the "father of Athenian democracy," is credited with reshaping the government of the city-state of Athens into one of the ancient world's first democracies. [Epaminondas](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epaminondas) was a famous Theban general and politician responsible for freeing the city of Thebes from Spartan rule. When mortally wounded on the battlefield, he is said to have responded to one of his lieutenant's laments that he would die childless by saying that no, he left behind two daughters, his two great victories at Leuctra and Mantinea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how unforgivably short this chapter is - we can only plead the format of kink memes.

Even early in the morning, the Musain was warm; the fire in the bread oven had likely been burning since four or five o’ clock, so that customers could have fresh rolls with their morning chocolate or coffee.

Enjolras’s own coffee had gone cold while he and Combeferre and Maximilian discussed strategy. Whether they ought to hold any form of demonstration outside Raspail’s trial, or whether it would be counterproductive. Whether to take up a collection to fund another society’s republican newspaper, or whether to give the money instead to fund a circulating library for workingmen that both Combeferre and Feuilly wished to support. 

Combeferre was quoting Thomas Jefferson on the need for a democracy to educate and enlighten its citizens, and that ‘the man who reads nothing at all is better educated than the man who reads nothing but newspapers,’ when Courfeyrac, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac’s little puppy of a roommate stumbled in through the Musain’s door, accompanied by a burst of cold air.

“Have a care with the door,” Joly protested. “Sudden cold drafts can unbalance-“

“Yes, yes,” Courfeyrac cut him off with a wave of the hand. “We’re all going to sicken and die of the influenza.”

“ _You_ shall,” Grantaire said. “I shall not. I have it directly from our learned scholars of medicine that alcohol prevents contagion.” Contrary to his words, he actually appeared to be sober for once, or nearly so. Apparently, the hour was too early for even Grantaire to have begun drinking.

“When surgeons rinse their hands in it, if Labarraque’s solution isn’t available,” Combeferre said. “Not when it’s drunk.”

Joly sniffed, and adjusted the red flannel object he was wearing wrapped around his neck in lieu of a cravat. He had offered to fashion Enjolras and Combeferre similar decorations of their very own, to protect them from catching a chill, but both had turned him down.

Bossuet had reportedly already lost his. Enjolras suspected that for once, the loss was not an accident.

Maximilian cleared his throat, and returned the topic to the relative merits of circulating libraries versus newspapers (he was firmly on the newspaper side of the argument, and both he and Combeferre had been trying to win Enjolras over to their respective sides of the debate for some minutes).

The newcomers took their seats, including Courfeyrac’s roommate. Enjolras hadn’t seen the ‘Baron de Pontmercy’ since he’d quarreled with him over Napoleon, and was tempted to make some disparaging comment about the Corsican, or enquire if the young man was intent on joining their discussion, or was merely present in hopes of acquiring a free breakfast, but he seemed so honestly pleased to be invited to sit with them that Enjolras couldn’t bring himself to be deliberately cutting.

Maximilian had no such compunctions, and eventually delivered such a hard set-down in response to one of Marius’s ill-informed questions that Courfeyrac openly protested. “Marius means no harm. He is merely seeking information. You will never win converts to our cause that way!”

Much though Enjolras sympathized with Maximilian’s impatience, their friend had a valid point.

Maximilian had not mastered the art of receiving criticisms with the same grace with which he delivered them, and visibly sulked for a minute or so afterward. After Courfeyrac threw his weight in on Combeferre’s side of the argument and the general decision fell in favor of education over publication (“We are, after all,” Courfeyrac had commented, “Les Amis de l'ABC,”), he withdrew from the discussion and directed his attention toward Grantaire, who was seated on his left, slouching over his coffee and largely ignoring the conversation.

The conversation turned from republican endeavors to Joly’s current favorite topic of la grippe, and he and Combeferre began debating the possibility of contagion and the merits of bloodletting as a preventative for fever.

Marius’s plaintive request, after a few minutes of this, that they not discuss lancets and leeches and noxious vapors while others were eating, was met with general support from all non-medical members of the company.

Enjolras was not possessed of a weak stomach, and long friendship with Combeferre had inured him to the prospect of insects and surgical techniques being discussed at the breakfast table, but familiarity with these subjects had not rendered them any more interesting to him. At least, he reflected, the prevention of disease was more relevant to the common good than the collection and categorization of moths and beetles, if equally dull.

He turned his attention to his cold coffee, which he had neglected while he and the others talked. The Musain’s coffee was generally good, strong enough for the flavor to withstand the addition of a great deal of milk, but not bitter enough to require much sugar, unless you were Courfeyrac and preferred every hot beverage you drank to have the same sickly sweetness as breakfast chocolate.

Under the hum of conversation, his ears caught a sharp intake of breath from Grantaire.

Enjolras turned automatically to see Maximilian leaning in to murmur something to Grantaire, his lips so close to the other man’s ear that he was very nearly nuzzling at his neck. That close, Grantaire’s unruly hair must be tickling his nose, and he’d be able to smell the musk of his skin… which presumably smelled of opium or hashish smoke or stale wine or something else entirely unappealing, Enjolras reminded himself.

Grantaire jerked away from Maximilian, his spine stiff and his shoulders hunched up in a way that looked almost defensive, the same posture he adopted when Enjolras was exasperated into being particularly harsh with him.

Maximilian said something soothing in an undertone, reaching out to touch one tense shoulder, and Grantaire came abruptly to his feet and stormed out without a word.

The Musain’s door slammed shut behind him, and for a moment there was nothing but silence.

“Well,” Enjolras observed after a moment. “That was an entirely new method of disrupting our meetings. Whatever prompted that?”

Maximilian shrugged, confusion and some slight hurt visible on his handsome face. “I have no idea. Monsieur Grantaire is in a foul mood this morning, and that’s for certain.”

Joly offered him a reassuring smile. “It will be the hour,” he told him. “Our friend is never at his best before noon.”

***

Grantaire was half-attending to Joly’s lecture on the ill effects of cold and damp, most of his attention on the lingering ache in his head and the heaviness of his eyelids (it was entirely too early for any man to be awake) when a hand settled with entirely too much familiarity upon his thigh.

He jerked upright, unable to still an exclamation of surprise as fingers stroked insinuatingly toward his groin.

“Shhh, don’t startle so,” Maximilian breathed into his ear. “This discussion grows tiresome. What do you say we go somewhere private and continue where we last left off?”

“Get your hand off me!” Grantaire hissed back, uncomfortably aware of the café full of people all around them. Maximilian’s breath was hot against his ear, sending shivers up the back of his neck. “What are you doing?” This could not be happening. Perhaps, he thought desperately, Maximilian did not know what he was implying, what effect his stroking fingers could have. Perhaps he wished to resume talking about—what had they discussed the other night? Popular fiction? Paris and her inhabitants? The conversation had ranged too far and he had drunk too much for him to remember all the details.

It was but the mad fancy of a moment; there was no mistaking the intent in the other man’s touch. “Oh, come. That’s not what you said night before last. You seemed quite eager then.  
Who knew you had feelings like that for our eloquent leader?”

Grantaire went cold, save for the still-tender marks on his neck and thigh, which seemed to burn like brands. He had put it out of his mind before, telling himself that he and Maximilian must have met with some accommodating young women before finishing out the evening, or, more likely, that he had somehow injured himself falling out of bed or tripping over his own feet, and those marks were the result of that and not, _not_ what they looked like.

Enjolras was looking at him, he realized, staring at the both of them.

He jerked himself away from Maximilian and came to his feet, suddenly unable to remain there a moment longer.

Once outside, it was easier to breath. The cold air cleared his head, and by the time he had returned to his apartment, he had calmed down enough to properly consider the other man’s words.

He had done foolish things while drunk before, awoken with an empty purse and the rent due tomorrow, with bruised knuckles and sore ribs from fights he couldn’t clearly recall, with half his friends not speaking to him and the serving girl in the Corinth near to spitting in his face, but this was a new low, even for him.

Grantaire sat down on the floor of his rented room, his back against the side of the bed, and a bottle of wine in his hands. In his own room, he didn’t bother with the trouble of a glass.

The negative aspects of facing the world while sober had always outweighed the benefits, or if not always, then often enough as made no difference. This, though… He rubbed at the mark on his neck again, and downed a healthy swallow of wine. 

Had he really lain with another man while drunk and forgotten the entire thing? He couldn’t do that. It was dangerous in more ways than one. What if it had been not Maximilian, but a stranger, some unknown man capable of doing god knew what him? He could have woken up with more than just the marks of a lover’s mouth on himself. He could have been sodomized, beaten, robbed, not woken up at all. He had been often enough in the less salubrious parts of Paris to know what fates befell unwary grisettes and prostitutes too desperate to be careful in their choice of customers.

His unspoken arrangement with Jehan was one thing, but this was quite another. The rest of his friends would be a great deal less tolerant of him and various excesses if they knew. 

And Enjolras… Grantaire had made no real secret of his feelings toward him, but most of his friends had likely not guessed their true nature. Jehan knew, and Joly and Bossuet had almost certainly guessed, though they had never said anything on the subject. Maximilian had spoken of it in a way that made his admiration for Enjolras sound sordid, like nothing more than base physical attraction, no different from a drunken sexual encounter had while Grantaire was unable to control himself. 

What he felt for Enjolras was more than that, purer than that. He might be lovely to look at, but what truly drew men to him and captivated was his spirit.

And if Enjolras knew that he was having drunken sex with other men as a substitute for him, he would be disgusted. Hell, Grantaire was disgusted with himself. Enjolras’s passions were all clean, fine things like justice and patriotism, all disinterested and remote. Whereas he…

Maximilian already had begun acting differently toward him, treating him as he would an artists’ model known for her loose morals and freedom with her favors. 

It wasn’t even untrue, save that no self-respecting artist would ever choose Grantaire as a model, unless he wished to depict a grotesque. 

Again, he asked himself what might have happened if he hadn’t been drinking with a companion.

He shook himself, more violent and deliberate than a mere shudder of distaste, and upended the wine bottle to drain it to the dregs.

It could have been anyone.

The world was still too steady around him, and his thoughts still too clear. A second bottle was called for. A third, even, if it came to that. He didn’t want to think about this anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [Antoine Labarraque](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Antoine_Germain_Labarraque) invented one of the earlier forms of disinfectant. Given that Combeferre's supposed to believe in "the suppression of suffering in surgical operations," it seems likely that he'd be in favor of it.


	3. Chapter 3

Tonight’s tavern was away from their usual haunts, but Grantaire had sworn that it had decent wine, pretty serving women, and the best pot-au-feu to be found on this bank of the Seine, and as usual, he’d turned out to be right. Jehan wasn’t sure how it was that his friend found these places, but his recommendations for dining establishments, boxing and fencing salons, and used book shops were generally infallible.

At the moment, it was the aforementioned pretty serving women who were the topic of conversation.

“No, look,” Bahorel was saying at his elbow. “You write all these poems about romance. Let’s see you get some experience. What about her?” He indicated a woman who was occupied in bringing wine to one of the nearby tables. “Or better yet, the young lady over there.” This second example was a young woman whose elaborately trimmed bonnet proclaimed her most likely a milliner’s assistant. She was sitting with two other working women, all of them seeming quite unconcerned by their lack of male accompaniment, and was laughing at something one of her companions had said. “See how she laughs. A good nature is the first thing to look for in a mistress.”

Jehan’s protests that one couldn’t simply _choose_ when and where to fall in love had gone unheard, so he tried a more direct method of refusal. “If I wanted advice about women, I’d ask Courfeyrac.”

Bahorel snorted. “Trust me, nothing Courfeyrac suggests works for anyone other than Courfeyrac. The last time I tried it, a woman slapped me.” 

Lesgles, seated on his other side, turned his attention from the remains of his dinner with a grin. “Were you wearing that waistcoat?” he asked.

“What’s wrong with my waistcoat?” Bahorel demanded, putting a hand to his chest to touch the garment in question, which was bright blue and garishly embroidered with peonies. “It’s dashing. I, unlike our starving poet or your friend there with the ugliest scarf in Christendom, am a man of style and substance.” 

“Yes,” Grantaire called from where he and Joly were engaged in steadily draining another bottle of wine. “Enough that you’ll shortly be wearing a waistcoat with whalebone and tight laces in order to reconcile your substance with the current styles.”

“Hah,” Bahorel laughed. “Those nipwaisted affaires are for prancing soldiers, mincing lawyers, and silly young men like Courfeyrac’s Marcus. I’m of good, solid peasant stock, with a solid man’s build.”

“Marius,” Jehan corrected absently. “His name’s Marius.”

“I am no judge of waistcoats,” Maximilian said. “Perhaps you should ask the young lady over there her opinion on it.”

Bahorel grinned, displaying strong, white teeth and one crooked incisor, then drained his glass and got up. “Maybe I will.”

He sauntered off to try his luck with a confidence Jehan could only envy, and after a brief exchange, had the girl laughing up at him. Bahorel charged headlong into every endeavor, and more often than not, his boldness was rewarded.

Thus far, the boldest thing Jehan had done had been to send a poem in to a Parisian newspaper for publication, whereupon he’d had to face the excruciating embarrassment of having his friends read it to one another aloud. He had a little volume of poetry almost ready to send to a publisher now, and when he finally succeeded in bringing it out, he was going to do so under a nom de plume and tell none of them. Considering the content of several of the more politically motivated poems, a nom de plume would likely be necessary anyway.

Sometime later, after Bahorel and the girl had disappeared to someplace more private, Bossuet nodded to where Joly had laid his head down on his folded arms, giggling helplessly at something Grantaire had said, and suggested that they bring the evening to an end. “Much more of this,” he said, “and I’ll have to carry him home.”

Joly looked up, shoulders still shaking with mirth. “Shall you sweep me off like Bahorel with his fair lady?”

“No,” Bossuet returned, with an affectionate little smile. “I’ll carry you over my shoulder like a sack of grain, and I’ll most likely drop you.”

This struck both Joly and Grantaire as hilarious.

Jehan, eying Grantaire’s flushed face and the boneless way he was slouched in his chair, found himself wondering if one of them was going to have to carry him home as well. Before he could voice the question, Maximilian did it for him.

“Which of us is going to escort our other friend home?”

“We can take him back to our place,” Bossuet said. “Musichetta will understand.” 

“Very understanding, Musichetta!” Joly, put in, nodding.

Jehan sighed, and prepared himself, for friendship’s sake, for the prospect of a good twenty minutes’ walk out of his way in the bitter cold. “No, we don’t need to put your mistress out. I’ll take him back to his own rooms.”

“Here, what’s this,” Grantaire protested, seeming finally to realize that he had become the topic of conversation. “I do not need an escort. I can find own way home.”

Jehan was about to reply that the length of time it had taken him to notice that they were discussing him all but proved that an escort was necessary, and that an unwary drunk making his way home on his own was likely to be robbed in the street, when Maximilian spoke up.

“I live a good deal closer to him, unless I mistake you address. I can do it.”

“That would be most kind of you-“ Jehan began.

“Are none of you listening?” Grantaire interrupted, rather more loudly this time. “I’ve drunk far more than this and never lost my way yet. I don’t need a minder, especially not you!” He stabbed an unsteady finger in Maximilian's direction.

Maximilian had clearly learned over the past few weeks not to take anything Grantaire said while drunk to heart (an important lesson when dealing with their friend), for he merely sighed and cast a long-suffering glance toward Jehan.

“He’s often like this,” Jehan told him, feeling the need to defend Grantaire despite the fact that Maximilian seemed unoffended. “He doesn’t truly mean it.”

Grantaire, of course, was still protesting when Maximilian hefted him to his feet and led him out, followed by Bossuet and a still giggling Joly, but it made Jehan easier in himself to know that someone was making certain his friend got home safely. Grantaire didn’t take proper care of himself, and trying to make sure he did so was much too large a task for one man to tackle alone.

***

It had begun to snow, the tiny flakes drifting down to draw a veil over the worst of Paris’s sins. Beautiful, silent death for those who had nowhere to sleep but the streets. Perhaps, Grantaire reflected, there were worse fates. At least one’s corpse would take longer to begin to rot. Dignity in death: what more could a beggar ask for? Other than a roof over his head, food, warm clothing, or some scrap of notice or pity from an indifferent public too intent on worrying that treading through accumulations of snow would spoil the polish on their boots to notice the poor wretches freezing in it.

He explained as much to his companion, and got only a few affirmative noises in return.

Considering how thoroughly he had disgraced himself in front of him while drunk last time, Maximilian Vilette was the very last person Grantaire wanted to have assisting him. When they reached the steps of his address with no mention being made of last time, however, he began belatedly to hope that perhaps the other man had realized after the last meeting at the Musain that Grantaire would prefer to pretend the entire incident had never happened. 

Could he truly blame him for assuming that Grantaire was available and eager for it? Maximilian had likely been carried away by the discovery that he wasn’t alone among the Amis in his tastes. It wasn’t after all, easy to find other men inclined that way, let alone ones you already knew and could consider friends.

He’d been rude, hadn’t he? He should apologize. Really, it was generally safe to assume, in any situation, that he’d done something for which he ought to apologize.

The front steps were slick with ice, and only Maximilian’s hand on his arm kept him from losing his footing. The hand remained there while they climbed the stairs to his rooms, which seemed to have grown much longer and somewhat uneven since the last time he’d climbed them.

“My apologies for the other night,” he began without preamble, as Maximilian maneuvered him through the doorway and into his accommodations.

“Did you say something?” Maximilian pushed lightly at his shoulders, and it took Grantaire a moment to realize that the other man wanted him to sit down on the bed. 

A wise idea; it wasn’t as if there were anywhere else to sit.

“The other night,” he repeated. “The last time you… that is, I suspect I-“ He broke off as Maximilian eased his coat from his shoulders and began untying his cravat. His fingers brushed against Grantaire’s chin, rasping against the stubble that always grew there by this point in the evening, and Grantaire felt his face heat. Underneath the fabric, the marks of his guilt were still painfully evident. “I can do that. You needn’t trouble yourself.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” Maximilian assured him. “I know exactly what you mean. Just lie back and let me take care of things.” He smiled down at Grantaire in a way that made his stomach twist with something that was half guilty arousal and half unease, and let go of Grantaire’s cravat.

Grantaire smiled back then, relieved that he’d understood, that he was going to put the whole incident aside and speak no more of it, hold no ill will over it or his churlish refusal of assistance earlier. He didn’t have so many friends that he could afford to alienate any of them, and his unspoken arrangement with Jehan was not something that could be duplicated with another. Not and have any prayer of keeping the whole matter a secret.

He reached automatically for his cravat, trying to re-tie it with fingers that felt half-numb and unusually clumsy. Those last few glasses he’d drained before leaving the tavern were beginning to take effect in earnest now, bringing a sudden wave of light-headed dizziness and a further flush of heat to his face. 

His hand collided with Maximilian’s, and he realized belatedly that Maximilian was unbuttoning his waistcoat.

“Leave off,” he said, swatting at Maximilian’s hands. 

Maximilian captured his hand and brought it down to rest on the edge of the bed, where he leaned his knee on it to keep it in place. “Patience,” he murmured. “I’ll have this off in a moment.”

Perhaps he hadn’t made himself clearly understood? “I’m leaving it on,” he told the other man. “I plan to sleep in my clothes, like the dissipated layabout I am. It will save me dressing again in the morning.”

It was untrue – he certainly didn’t plan to sleep in his partially-undone cravat, which was likely to half-strangle him in his sleep – but he neither wanted nor required any help undressing and felt a pressing need to make Maximilian stop. Where Joly’s touch would have been kindly but impersonal and Jehan’s affectionate, Maximilian’s felt almost proprietary. Part of him wanted to just surrender and let the other man take care of him, let him strip off his clothes and pull off his boots and tuck him into bed where he could close his eyes against the dizzying movement of the world and sleep, but at the same time, something was suggesting dimly but urgently that that would not be a good idea.

Maximilian’s fingers didn’t cease their task, and in moments, despite Grantaire’s attempts to grab at his wrist with his free hand, Grantaire’s waistcoat was hanging open.

“You should take more care with your dress,” Maximilian said, quite conversationally, as if Grantaire hadn’t even spoken. “That last button is about to come loose, and even if it weren’t, this waistcoat is much too large.”

Grantaire began to protest that it had fit when he bought it, and that it hadn’t been intended to be one of those overly constrictive garments for men who desired to show off their figures, because he had enough sense not to make a mockery of himself in styles meant for men considerably more blessed by nature then he had been, only to recall himself partway through. “Why am I debating this with you? I told you to leave me be. Didn’t you hear me?”

Maximilian gave his shoulders a shove again, less gently this time, and Grantaire found himself flat on his back on the bed, the world lurching and spinning around him.

“Oh, come,” Maximilian was saying. “Don’t play the prude now. We both know you’ll enjoy it. You were quick enough to participate last time.” His was undoing the front placket of Grantaire’s trousers now, his knees planted on either side of Grantaire’s thighs, his body looming over him.

This couldn’t be happening. “No,” Grantaire protested, shoving at Maximilian’s shoulders. “Get off! Go find yourself a whore.” Flat on his back like this, he couldn’t get the leverage to push the other man off, and his attempt to bring a knee up and put an end to any interest Maximilian might have in sex for the foreseeable future accomplished nothing. Maximilian was practically sitting astride his thighs, too far up his legs for either kicking or a knee to the groin to be possible, and he outweighed Grantaire by close to fourteen kilograms. 

“I thought I already had,” Maximilian said, and really, some half-hysterical part of Grantaire’s brain babbled, such an obvious witticism ought to have been beneath him. But then, apparently there were many things which weren’t beneath him, Grantaire being the obvious exception.

Maximilian’s hand closed around his cock, fingers cool and rough, and with a rush of confused humiliation, Grantaire felt himself stiffen to attention. He had been half-hard since the other man had begun undoing his cravat; was he that indiscriminate in his appetites, that any touch of another’s hand could serve to arouse him?

“I knew you wanted this,” Maximilian murmured into his ear, the hot tickle of his breath making gooseflesh break out all along Grantaire’s spine. Like the anticipation of a lover’s caress. Like his skin wanted to crawl away. “Why deny it?” He pressed an openmouthed kiss against the side of Grantaire’s neck, then sucked his earlobe into his mouth, nibbling on it. Between their bodies, his hands moved rhythmically, working Grantaire’s cock.

He didn’t want this, did he? The bed beneath him was still tilting back and forth slightly, the dizziness made worse by his thrashing around. 

“You can pretend I’m him if that’s what gets you off,” Maximilian whispered, and bent his head to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "a waistcoat with whalebone and tight laces" - it was fashionable in the 1820s and early 1830s for men to have a narrow-waisted silhouette (as in [these](http://www.pinterest.com/pin/116178865359803934/) [period](http://www.pinterest.com/pin/116178865361208681/) [fashion](http://www.pinterest.com/pin/116178865360739918/) [plates](http://www.pinterest.com/pin/116178865360733369/)), and some men wore waistcoats with built-in stays in order to achieve the right look (and some, such as King George IV of England, rather infamously wore actual corsets).


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh, no, thank you.” Combeferre waved away the suggestion of a second order of coffee. “The second volume of Boisduval’s _General History_ has come out,” he went on. “I shall have to economize in order to purchase it.” 

No one asked him what manner of book this General History was – not even Grantaire, who was usually swift to seize upon any excuse to distract them all from political discussion. Undeterred, Combeferre began to explain anyway. “It’s a comprehensive study of the Lepidoptera species of North America, with color plates. I have the first volume already, and the detail is remarkable. Every vein of the wing is shown, and the coloration of the-“ 

Enjolras returned his attention to the scrawled draft of a pamphlet Maximilian had asked him to look over. The man’s handwriting was nearly as dreadful as Bossuet’s, without the excuse of Bossuet’s perpetually splitting pen nibs and tendency to write with his left hand when he thought no one was looking. 

He and his friends were gathered in the upper room of the Musain, where they could speak freely with the map of the Republic looking down on them. Or rather, most of them were gathered; Bossuet was attending a lecture on the law this afternoon, and Bahorel was out somewhere avoiding attending one. Joly was absent as well, though whether it was due to his studies or to his finally succumbing to the influenza he worried so about (or to his imagining that he had), Enjolras did not know. 

No sooner had Combeferre paused to marshal his thoughts than Courfeyrac, ever adept at conversation, diverted him to the topic of universal education, and the need to have free education for boys in all towns in France. This being a topic even dearer to Combeferre’s heart than his favorite hobby, he readily abandoned Lepidoptera to discuss it. 

“Women are in need of education as well, perhaps even more so. They may not study at the universities or _grandes ecoles_ , or at the _ecoles normales_ , even though their faculties have the potential to be the equal of man’s.”

“Let us have basic schooling for all men first,” Enjolras protested, abandoning his pamphlet, “and then we can concern ourselves with higher education for women.” 

He and Combeferre had debated this topic before, and his friend responded as he always did. “Who will teach the virtues of citizenship and the ability to reason to the next generation if not their mothers?” 

“Well,” Courfeyrac put in, “technically, the free village schools would do that.” 

Combeferre frowned. “Now you are playing devil’s advocate. We’ve discussed this before, Courfeyrac; I know you agree with me.” 

“Perhaps I’ve changed my mind. It’s the prerogative of the fairer sex to do so, so therefore it may be my prerogative when discussing them.” He grinned playfully at them both and spread his hands. “Perhaps I may come back to your way of thinking once more. Enjolras and I shall allow you to persuade us.” Courfeyrac rested his chin upon his hands and gazed at Combeferre with an attitude of reverent expectation. 

Combeferre was no doubt prepared to do just that – though he would not have succeeded, since basic schooling for all men would always be of more importance than advanced learning for a few, be they women or men – when the conversation at the neighboring table caught Enjolras’s attention. 

“Maximilian thinks-“ Jehan was beginning. 

“Oh, Maximilian thinks,” Feuilly interrupted a sneer in his voice. “By all means, let’s hear what the great and noble Maximilian has to say about it.” It was a tone Enjolras had rarely heard from the man, who was general one of the more easy-going of their company, and the fact that it was directed at a fellow member of their group made it all the more unusual.

Jehan blinked at him, expressive face a mirror of Enjolras’s own surprise. “You don’t like him?” 

Feuilly shook his head. “I know the rest of you count him as a friend, but he just-“ He gestured with both hands for a moment, then said, in the higher-pitched, slightly sing-song voice men adopted when engaging in mean-spirited mimickry, “You’ve done admirably for your circumstances, but you must allow yourself to be guided by more educated men.” He snorted, lip curling. “That’s a direct quote, by the by. If he was like that with you, you’d not be able to stand him either.” 

“He’s dedicated to the cause,” Enjolras protested. “He loves France as much as the rest of us.” It was true, and yet somehow he still felt as if he were apologizing for the man. 

Combeferre, as usual, stepped in to mediate. “It takes time for the nobility to overcome their background. Remember when Marius first started coming and got into that argument with Enjolras over Napoleon?” 

Feuilly smiled at that, his nose wrinkling slightly. “Yes, but that’s Marius.” 

Courfeyrac nodded. “Marius is always full of misplaced enthusiasm. Like a puppy.” He said the words with a fondness Enjolras couldn’t quite reconcile with the awkward, overly-naïve youth who occasionally appeared at the society’s meetings with the air of a man who had wandered in by mistake. Courfeyrac had a habit of adopting strays; he’d done it to Enjolras himself when he had first arrived at university, sweeping him into his social circle as swiftly and easily as if they were longtime intimates. 

“But he didn’t patronize me, for all his stupid ‘Baron Pontmercy’ cards,” Feuilly said. 

Jehan gave a little half-laugh. “I remember those. You must admit, at least Maximilian does not hand out calling cards.”

“I’m not fond of him either.” 

The voice came hesitantly from the far corner, where Grantaire was currently huddling with a bottle of wine. He’d been there when Enjolras had arrived, already looking half-drunk, and he hadn’t so much as looked up from his glass the entire afternoon. 

“I don’t… He-“ Grantaire broke off, silent for a moment, and then he burst out, with unexpected vehemence, “He’s a liar and a hypocrite, and I wish he’d stop coming.” 

A hypocrite? This, from the man who openly lacked faith in their cause and seemed to see their group as naught but a source for amiable drinking companions? 

“He’s done more for the revolution than you ever have,” Enjolras snapped. 

Grantaire appeared to deflate, slumping further over his half-empty glass, and Enjolras quashed a momentary pang of guilt. He had not, after all, said anything that wasn’t true. Maximilian was a firm republican, rather than a cynical dilettante, and coming to them as a former affiliate of Raspail and Blanqui’s _Societé_ , he had more experience in the republican movement than any of them, including Enjolras himself. 

He said as much to Feuilly, and got a sour grunt in return, followed by a grudging acknowledgement that possibly Maximilian meant well, but he was incapable of not being condescending about it. 

Equally unwillingly, Enjolras found himself forced to admit that indeed, the other man often appeared convinced that he knew better what was good for the people he fought for than they did themselves. 

When he looked over again sometime later, Grantaire was gone.

***

Grantaire awoke to the consequences of a night spent drinking, his mouth dry and foul-tasting and his head aching dully. By the angle of the light coming in through his window, it was near midday, and for a while he simply lay in bed, contemplating going back to sleep.

He had slunk home in shame and misery yesterday after his argument with Enjolras – if one could call it that, considering his own feeble lack of a rebuttal for the other man’s words – and drunk himself to sleep, trying to think about anything but Maximilian. 

Sleep would not return, and at last Grantaire was forced to concede that facing the day was inevitable. He had no food in his apartment, and only a single, half-empty wine bottle in the way of drink, and he would have to leave to procure himself both necessities. 

If he went to the Musain, the others would be there. The same held true to a lesser extent for the Corinth, and the little wineshop near Joly and Bossuet’s rooms in the Latin Quarter, and the tavern at the Barriere du Combat, and the bakery on the Boulevard du Maine. Any one of his regular haunts held the risk of meeting with someone he knew. 

With Maximilian, who lived only a few streets away and frequented all the same locations he himself did. 

There were any number of establishments farther away that he could visit, where he would be assured of being left in peace, but the prospect of more hours with nothing but his own thoughts for company was nearly as unwelcome as that of encountering Maximilian again. 

He couldn’t avoid the man forever. Not unless he wanted to cut off contact with nearly every one of his friends. 

For half a moment, as he sat on the edge of his bed with his aching head in his hands, the thought was tempting. He could simply stay inside his rooms, and never see anyone again, never have to see the look in their eyes when they discovered what he had done, never have to suffer Maximilian’s touch again, never have to fail to succeed at any endeavor or earn disappointment or censure, never have to _try_. 

Except that then he would be alone. He couldn’t, he knew, survive that way. And he had only half a bottle of wine left. 

So he splashed some water on his face, made a half-hearted attempt at shaving, and went to the Musain. 

Maximilian was not there, thank the god he didn’t believe in, but several of the others were, as well as a pair of students he’d never seen before, one earnestly hanging on Courfeyrac’s every word and the other obviously bored. 

Courfeyrac was in his element, effortlessly charming and full of contagious enthusiasm. In any other man, Grantaire would have thought that open smile and easy manner an act, assumed that cheerful enthusiasm for the dignity of the working man feigned and that open disgust for the privilege of the nobility and the wealthiest of the bourgeoisie merely a façade put on to deflect attention from his own privilege. In this instance, however, he knew it to be nothing less than the truth. 

His friends were better men than he. It was why they did not believe him when he told them how little the ordinary man cared for equality or freedom, so long as his belly was full. They judged the world by their own examples. 

Grantaire sat quietly with his wine, letting the conversation wash over him and drinking steadily until he was able to relax, stop worrying that Maximilian would walk in at any moment, and start contributing to the conversation again. 

Enjolras was not there today, and he found himself almost relieved by that, still smarting from the weight of his disapproval last time. It was somehow easier to talk without Enjolras's presence, especially when he was a little drunk and Bahorel was there to keep egging him on. 

He was halfway through an explanation of why England's supposed lack of slavery was all so much hypocritical bullshit since they still possessed slaves in their colonies and their mill workers often lived in conditions little better than slavery - and wondering how had he gotten from singlestick and boxing moves to the British empire’s sordid economic practices - when Maximilian walked in. 

His presence was a bucket of ice water thrown over Grantaire’s happy drunk. 

Grantaire broke off midsentence, swallowing hard as a wave of sudden nausea went through him. He groped mentally for the thread of his commentary but it had left him entirely. His former sense of ease and relaxed warmth was gone, and instead he felt dizzy and out-of-control, his heart hammering. 

Automatically, he hunched his shoulders and slouched lower in his chair, as if that would keep Maximilian from noticing him. Grantaire knew himself incapable of controlling his face or his tongue at the best of times, much less when half-drunk, and he was filled with a terrible conviction that everything he had done with Maximilian and everything the other man had done to him must be written on his face for all to see. Silently, he pleaded for the other man not to look at him, not speak to him. 

What if he did and Grantaire said something stupid and revealed the shameful truth? What if Maximilian said something? Everyone would _know._

"Grantaire?" Joly asked. "Are you all right? You look distinctly ill." 

Maximilian turned, inevitably, and Grantaire knew the moment the other man caught sight of him by the little smile that pulled at his lips. 

He _felt_ distinctly ill. Joly wouldn’t be leaning toward him so solicitously if he knew what was actually wrong. "Too much wine," he blurted out, and lurched to his feet. "You'll have to excuse me." 

By the time he made it outside to lean against the wall, he no longer felt as if he were going to be ill. It was all right. It was fine. He was fine. He would just go and find some other café or wine shop to drink in, one out of the way of their usual haunts. Maybe that little one on the left bank that sold the surprisingly affordable sweet Anjou, or, no something dry and red would settle his stomach better—

An arm slipped around his shoulders, and Grantaire went stiff, stomach cold and hollow, as Maximilian’s voice said, 

“Grantaire, my friend. You left so abruptly. Are you feeling all right?” 

He sounded as amiable as ever, as if what had happened between them had never occurred. He even sounded slightly concerned, as if he didn’t know perfectly well exactly why Grantaire had left and what was wrong. 

“I’m fine,” Grantaire stammered, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy. Usually, the difficulty was in curbing his tongue, but for perhaps the first time ever his mind was empty of words. “I- I have a headache. Too much wine. I’m fine.” He ducked away from Maximilian’s arm and took a step away from the man, feeling slightly steadier when Maximilian failed to make a grab for him. “I’m leaving now. To go home. I’m fine. You- I’ve no need for any help.” 

Maximilian frowned, taking a step closer, then another as Grantaire automatically retreated. “Must you leave so soon?” he asked mildly. “I’ve been waiting to see you again since the other night.” He smiled then, the same little curve of his lips he’d made when he’d caught sight of Grantaire in the Musain, and reached for Grantaire’s sleeve. “It was a most enjoyable evening, and I thought-“ 

“Enjoyable?” Grantaire asked, his voice cracking embarrassingly on the word. He snatched his arm from Maximilian’s grasp, deliberately trying to be a rude as possible. “I certainly didn’t enjoy it. I’ll thank you not to touch me again.” 

Maximilian’s eyebrows went up, and then the little smile was back. “Don’t play the outraged maiden. You most certainly did enjoy it. You were anything but reluctant when you were writhing under me and spending all over my hand.” 

Grantaire could feel his face heating, a painful flush that had nothing to do with alcohol. “Don’t say such things,” he hissed. “Someone might hear you.” Even he never spoke so freely of the crude details of sex, not even with grisettes and prostitutes. 

“Your blushes are as good as a confession.” Maximilian took a step closer again, his tone sharper now, less cajoling. “I’ve brought you to completion twice now, and gotten little in return for my efforts but a few kisses. Come, friend, you owe me a debt.” 

At those words, some of the sick, nervous fear in his gut was replaced by anger. Maximilian dared to speak of debts and owing, as if he’d done Grantaire a service instead of humiliated him? “I owe you nothing,” he spat. “I neither asked for nor wanted your attentions. Do as I told you before and go find yourself a whore, if you’re so desperate for company.”

“Do you imagine yourself some great prize, that you can afford to be so choosy?” 

“Find yourself a better prize, then, and leave me be.” 

“Well, if you feel that way about it, perhaps I shall. And perhaps I’ll tell our friends how inhospitable you were, after all we’ve done together.” 

Grantaire laughed, a little involuntary bark of a sound. “That will come as no surprise to them. I’m often inhospitable.” 

“After all we’ve done together,” Maximilian repeated, “and how eager you were for it.” 

Belatedly, Grantaire recognized the threat, and the nausea from before came rushing back, thick in his throat. “Don’t,” he begged. “Don’t tell them.” 

“What would Enjolras say, I wonder, if he knew the true reason why you hang about us? Or Bahorel, if he knew how eager you were to debase yourself with a man, any man? He’d think twice before drinking with you again, I imagine.” 

He would, Grantaire knew. Any man would. It was a minor miracle that his friends had put up with him thus far, and if they knew everything… his mind couldn’t conjure up the details, couldn’t produce anything beyond a panicked horror at the idea of the others _knowing_ he’d been used as a whore and been brought to enjoy it. “Don’t,” he repeated. “Please.” 

Maximilian came closer, leaning in until Grantaire could feel the heat of the other man’s breath on his face. “If you satisfy me well enough, perhaps I’ll keep quiet about it.” 

For half a moment, Grantaire wanted to hit the man – knock him down on his arse, break his nose, his wrist, his ribs. Maximilian carried a cane, and if he could get that away from him, Grantaire could hurt him badly. And his friends would be horrified, demand to know why, and what, exactly could he tell them? 

Not even suffering Maximilian’s touch again would be as bad as losing their regard, undeserved though it was. 

“All right,” he said, blinking hard as his eyes went hot. “What do you want me to do?” 

"You have such a clever mouth, always mocking and making light of our cause. Let's see you put it to a better use." 

"What, here in the street?" He wouldn't. It was broad daylight; anyone could come along and see them, and surely Maximilian didn't want to have gamines pelt him with snowballs for being a dirty lecher, or get himself arrested for public indecency. His name was likely down on some government list as a Blanquist, a seditious radical for the police to keep watch on. 

Maximilian snorted. "Of course not here in the street. Have you no modesty? We'll go back into that alley." He nodded toward the other side of the street, where two buildings stood just far enough apart to create a narrow gap between them, and took Grantaire by the arm, pulling him toward it. 

Grantaire eyed the drifts of filthy snow that piled in the gutters and along the Musain's walls, the still-unmelted remnants of the past two snowstorms, blackened with soot and frozen to a hard crust, and shuddered at the thought of kneeling in it. He'd rushed outside without gloves, and the cold was already seeping through his clothing. 

“I believe the Romans called it _fellatio_ ,” Maximilian was saying. 

"The word you're looking for is _irrumatio_ , actually," Grantaire muttered. “As in ‘ _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_.’” Yes, that was clever, he thought. Why didn’t he simply keep on giving the man ideas? 

This would be easier if he were drunk enough to shut his brain off, but of course, that was what had led him here in the first place. 

The snow was frozen hard, enough so that it crunched under his knees as he knelt in front of Maximilian. The other man had put himself between Grantaire and the mouth of the alley either to block what was about to occur from the sight of passers-by, or to keep Grantaire from fleeing. 

His fingers fumbled on the falls of Maximilian’s trousers, numb from cold this time instead of drink. He told himself that what he was about to do couldn’t be terribly difficult, that prostitutes did it all the time, that he’d do it for Enjolras without a second thought. 

The very idea of invoking Enjolras’s name at that moment seemed a kind of sacrilege, and Grantaire forced his image from his mind. 

“Yes,” Maximilian murmured, as Grantaire leaned forward and tentatively took the tip of Maximilian’s cock in his mouth. “Just like that.” 

He’d been braced for it to taste terrible, but it didn’t. He still found himself fighting the urge to gag, sure Maximilian would not react well to that. 

“This is where you belong,” Maximilian was saying, as he slid a hand into Grantaire’s hair, the grip not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to hold him in place. “On your knees before better men.” 

Grantaire briefly entertained fantasies of biting him, but instead drew air in in through his nose – the short curls of Maximilian’s hair tickled at it, and this would be easier, somehow, if the musky smell he was breathing in had been unpleasant – and tried to suck at the flesh in his mouth. Icy moisture was already starting to soak through the knees of his trousers. 

“Make it good,” Maximilian said, his voice gone low and rough, “or maybe I’ll have to go looking for someone else prettier. Jehan, perhaps.” 

Grantaire put his all into it, hating Maximilian almost as much as he did himself.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- [Jean Baptiste Boisduval](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean_Baptiste_Boisduval) was a famous French entomologist and botanist. His _Histoire général et iconographie des lepidoptérès et des chenilles de l’Amerique septentrionale_ (with [color plates](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:HistoireNaturelleInsectes.SpeciesG%C3%A9n%C3%A9ralL%C3%A9pidopt%C3%A9resPlate17.jpg)!) was published in multiple volumes between 1829 and 1837. The original watercolors used to create the illustrations are currently held at the University of South Carolina and can be viewed [here](http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/abbot/about.html). (The collection has everything from a perfectly detailed [Monarch Butterfly](http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/abbot/assets/abbot_ref/abbot018a.jpg) to an equally perfect drawing of the loathsome [Eastern Tent Caterpillar](http://library.sc.edu/spcoll/abbot/assets/abbot_ref/abbot109a2.jpg)*)  
>  *Imagine every tree in your yard covered in [these](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/d/d9/The_Moth_larvae_Nest.jpg) and then imagine never sleeping again.
> 
> \- The Latin Grantaire quotes is the first line of Catullus's infamously filthy poem #16, which pretty much translates as "I will rape you up the ass and in the mouth." (It was directed at critics who failed to understand Catullus's Dickensean soul and were interrogating his text from the wrong perspective).


	5. Chapter 5

It was so cold that he could feel the ache of it inside his ears, and his fingers were going painfully numb inside his gloves. Snow had started falling again, tiny flakes like frozen sand instead of the soft, white feathers of last week, and Grantaire was beginning to wish he had taken Joly up on his offer of a hideous red flannel object to wear in place of a cravat. He doubted that it would have done anything at all against the ague or the influenza, but at least it would have been warm.

Staying in bed in his apartments would have been warmer yet, but he had forgotten to buy food or drink yesterday after… after he’d left the Musain, and by midway through a day of consuming neither wine nor solid food of any kind, his hands had begun to shake.

At least now that he was outdoors, he could blame it on the cold.

He was already regretting his decision to walk to the market instead of simply buying food ready-made at the Musain and carrying it home. He had originally decided that the market would be less expensive and therefore worth the longer walk, but now that he was actually out upon the streets, the extra few sous were seeming less and less significant. 

This far into winter, there were few vegetables or fruits for sale, save for cold-weather crops like fennel and turnips, and the remnants of this fall’s apples. He bought several of those, along with cheese and bread – his room contained no facilities for cooking, making it necessary for all meals eaten there to be either cold or ready-made – and was about to turn back and head for home, with plans to stop only at the warmest-looking wine shop along the way, when he caught sight of a small form darting between the market stalls.

He recognized the child almost immediately as one of the gamines who often hung around the edges of the crowd when Enjolras spoke outside. He sometimes ran messages for students, and Bahorel had hired him several times to delivers billets doux to mistresses, and once to take a message to someone at the law school so that he himself wouldn’t have to step inside it.

Gavroche. That was his name.

Grantaire hailed him, reaching into his pocket for the change left over from his purchases. Then, seeing the way the boy’s raw, red fingers were clutched around a roll – studded with currants and most likely stolen from a baker’s cart – he reconsidered. Cold was likely a worse threat than hunger right now. He did not know where Gavroche slept at night, but he was relatively certain that it was on the streets somewhere, and in weather like this, a child sleeping outside could easily freeze to death.

“Ha, wine-cask! Want me to deliver a letter?” The child stared up at him, too-wide mouth stretched into an impudent grin. “There’s an extra fee for postal delivery in the snow.”

“Not that your sobriquet isn’t apt,” Grantaire said, “but hasn’t anyone told you that you ought to address your elders by ‘monsieur?’”

“Monsieur Wine-cask,” Gavroche parroted back with mock obedience, “would you like me to deliver a letter? Or should it be _citoyen_ for you, since you’re one of those republicans?”

Grantaire found himself smiling, recognizing beneath the bluster and swagger the familiar aspect of a boy who knows he will never be a pretty child, and so makes his best effort to be clever and amusing instead. “It’s all the same to me,” Grantaire told him. “But I have a commission to fulfill as a good republican. We can’t have our most reliable messenger taking ill from the cold, so I’m to offer you the hospitality of my apartments for a night or two, until the weather breaks.”

He knew it for a foolish idea even as he offered – if the child did accept, he would very likely rob Grantaire blind – but looking at the way he shivered in a thin, inadequate coat, hands raw with cold from a lack of gloves, he extended the invitation instinctively. He owned little that was valuable enough to steal anyway, and the loss of it would be small compared to having a child’s death on his conscience.

The smile faded from Gavroche’s face, replaced by a look of distinct suspicion. “And what would I have to do in return for this hospitality, monsieur?”

Grantaire felt a fool as be belatedly realized that a child in his circumstances would of course be suspicious that his offer of a bed for the night was not truly free. He felt sick for a moment at the thought of what the Gavroche was likely afraid the price would be, remembering the feel of Maximilian's hands on him, and shook his head. “It is freely offered. You need do nothing except refrain from doing away with me in my sleep and stealing all my worldly possessions.”

Gavroche looked unimpressed, and Grantaire rushed on, before the boy could proudly refuse to accept charity.

“My landlady is sentimental about children,” he said, reaching for the first excuse that came to mind, however thin, “and if she believes I’ve taken in a young cousin for a few nights, she might be more inclined to overlook my overdue rent.”

Gavroche’s shoulders relaxed out of their pugnacious stance. “Out of money, huh?” he asked. He made a show of thinking things over for a moment, and then nodded sharply. “I suppose I could do you a favor,” he said, with a cocky little grin, “since you’re one of Bahorel’s friends. But you’ll owe me for it.”

“Twice over,” Grantaire agreed, accepting Gavroche’s hand to shake, man-to-man. “For I’ll earn our leader’s favor as well. I told you I’d been given a commission.”

Gavroche nodded, and took a bite out of his stolen bun. “Just so you know,” he said, speaking through a mouthful of crumbs, “you’re a terrible liar.”

Grantaire led the way to the wine shop and then back to his rooms without dignifying that with an answer. In the back of his mind the thought occurred to him that Maximilian was unlikely to do anything with him with a child around, but he shoved that notion out of his head. Surely even he was not despicable enough to hide behind a child.

It was already too cold for any civilized man to venture out, and the snow showed every sign of getting worse. Maximilian might know where he lived, but he wouldn’t come calling in weather like this. He wouldn’t.

If he did, Grantaire told himself, he’d send the boy away.

***

As it turned out, he had no need to send Gavroche away. When Maximilian eventually called, two days later, Gavroche was out.

Grantaire had no idea what the boy did during the day, and had not asked him; he was relatively certain that if he did, Gavroche would cease staying with him, and the past two nights had been bitterly cold, the weather showing no signs of breaking.

He'd given Gavroche the heaviest of his blankets to make a pallet on the floor, and pressed himself close against the wall behind his bed, where the building's chimney ran through the wall, so he could soak up the warmth that radiated through the brick and plaster.

Grantaire was still huddled there, unable to sleep any longer but lacking any impetus to get out of bed, when Maximilian entered the room, swinging the door open even as he knocked.

He nudged an empty bottle with his boot and glanced around him, looking entirely unimpressed. "It's nearly three in the afternoon. What are you doing still lying abed?"

Grantaire sat up, unwilling to simply lie there with Maximilian standing over him. He was suddenly painfully aware of the fact that he wore only his shirt and his thickest pair of stockings; beneath the inadequate shield of his bedclothes, he was very nearly naked. "What are you doing here? Get out!"

“No one has seen you in several days,” Maximilian said. His disapproval was obvious, and for a brief, disturbing moment, Grantaire was reminded of Enjolras, whose reaction upon seeing both his room and his person in such a slovenly state would have been open and deserved contempt. “Your friends are worried.”

Grantaire folded his arms across his chest and glared up at the man, willing himself not to blush or hunch in on himself or give any other sign of how disturbing it was to have Maximilian looming over him. “You’re not my friend.”

“So hurtful.” Maximilian pressed a hand to his heart, the gesture deliberately over-dramatic. Then he smiled. “No, I’m not. My friends are those who share my cause. You are merely a diversion, if admittedly an enjoyable one.”

“Get out,” Grantaire spat again.

One blond eyebrow arched. “After coming all this way to check on you in weather like this? Give me at least a few minutes to warm myself before I leave again.”

After their humiliating encounter in the alley, Grantaire felt that he could cheerfully watch Maximilian freeze to death in the street without feeling the least bit of guilt. If that made him uncharitable, well, he’d never claimed to be a good man. “We’re but a few minutes’ walk from the Musain. Go and warm yourself there.”

“And find myself more agreeable company?” 

Was that a veiled threat, or simply a reminder that all of Grantaire’s regular companions counted Maximilian as a friend? Either way, “None of them would give you the time of day if they knew what you really were.”

“You think so?” Maximilian sounded honestly curious for a moment, then shook his head, smiling faintly. “They’ve put up with you all this time, despite the fact that you contribute nothing. I think I’d be forgiven a few vices. Especially when they learn that you were the one who first solicited me.”

That sounded… far more plausible than Grantaire wanted it to. “They know what I’m like. They would-“

“No one’s patience is infinite.” Maximilian cut him off as smoothly as if they were arguing politics at the Musain, but without half the passion. Apparently, Grantaire wasn’t worth the kind of anger that the profligate expense of Louis-Phillipe’s civil list or the blindness of the self-satisfied petit-bourgeoisie merited. “And our leader is very short on patience where you’re concerned.” 

It was nothing but the truth – and not even something Grantaire could blame Enjolras for, since he wouldn’t be moved to patience with himself in Enjolras’s place, either, supposing that some version of himself could ever have the strength of principle or will to occupy Enjolras’s place – and yet hearing it put so plainly still made his stomach twist and something inside his chest burn.

“You really think they’ll listen to you?” Maximilian went on. “You’re a parasite, a useless hanger-on; they don’t want or need you.”

Grantaire’s face and eyes both grew hot, and what little pride he had finally rebelled. This was his apartment; he didn’t have to sit here and listen to this. 

The idea of Maximilian continuing to stand there in Grantaire’s space was suddenly more intolerable than the idea of Maximilian seeing him in his shirttails with half-naked legs. Grantaire tossed the covers aside and stood. “You tell me nothing I don’t already know,” he said, and moved forward with the intention of giving the other man a good shove that would send him backwards out the open door.

Maximilian side-stepped, looking entirely unintimidated. Of course he did; he’d had Grantaire on his back in this very room, had him on his knees outside the Musain. Why would he fear his fists after that? “But I could tell our mutual friends a great deal,” he said. “For all your bluster, I don’t think you truly want that.”

“What do you want? For me to bring you off with my mouth again?” He’d meant the words to sound biting; instead, they sounded wary, pleading. From action to bargaining for his virtue in less than a minute, he thought; truly an impressive showing. No wonder Maximilian sought him out for this, despite his unprepossessing face and form. Who else would give him what he wanted with so little trouble?

Maximilian actually grinned then, as if Grantaire were jesting with him. “I suspect you’d only bite me in this mood. No, I have something else in mind.”

Grantaire shook his head. “We’re even now.” He kept his voice as flat and emotionless as he could make it, forcing himself to speak quietly rather than shouting. “I’m done with this.” If he rushed Maximilian and caught him in the chest with his shoulder, hooked a foot behind his ankle, he could have him on his back on the floor of the hallway in half a moment. Maybe, if Grantaire were very lucky, he’d go sprawling down the building’s narrow flight of stairs and knock himself out.

Maximilian stepped forward just as Grantaire was tensing himself to move, and put an overly familiar hand on his shoulder. “I’ll decide when we’re done,” he said, as Grantaire stupidly, helplessly felt himself freeze. “Don’t worry. You’ll enjoy this.” 

He leaned forward and whispered what he wanted, mouth a bare breath away from Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire grabbed Maximilian’s wrist, yanking the unwanted hand away. “You overestimate yourself.” He squeezed hard, hoping his fingers were biting into tendons, deliberately trying to cause pain.

Maximilian winced, but made no move to pull away. If anything, he looked pleased to have elicited such a reaction. “Shall I tell the respectable couple downstairs what we did in that alley?” he asked. “I’ll say I paid you for the privilege, and they’ll have you out on the street before you can say ‘prostitution.’”

It was the truth – the middle-aged couple who owned the building were willing to rent to a student, or even to an artist or other figure of similar Bohemian habits and debatable respectability, but would absolutely not tolerate a prostitute of either sex under their roof – and Grantaire had been mistaken when he’d thought, in the alley, that he couldn’t possibly hate either himself or Maximilian more.

He flung Maximilian’s arm away from him in revulsion and jerked back from him, automatically bringing his fist up to take a swing at him.

It was a wild, unplanned effort, and Maximilian ducked sideways, Grantaire’s knuckles grazing his ear instead of catching him squarely in the face as he’d intended.

“So that’s a yes, then?” he asked, stepping back and pressing a hand to the side of his head.

“No.” Forcing the word out made his throat hurt. “No, damn you, I’ll do it. Don’t tell them.”

He couldn’t afford to be without lodgings, and if Maximilian was willing to go to such lengths, what was to stop him from telling everyone else Grantaire might attempt to rent rooms from as well? A few words to their friends, and he wouldn’t even be able to beg the use of a stretch of one of their floors.

He had no choice but to give in. He’d already as good done so when he’d asked Maximilian what it was he wanted, when he’d frozen at that hand on his shoulder and loathsome whisper in his ear instead of beating the man senseless and physically throwing him out of his room. 

“Of course you will. You can pretend you hate this, but we both know otherwise.” The suggestive, predatory smirk made Grantaire flush hotly with embarrassment.

He _had_ wanted Maximilian’s hands on him, that first time here – the first time he remembered, anyway. His body had, at least, regardless his attempts not to respond. This, though…

He took a deep breath, reminding himself that Gavroche might return at any time. The faster he got this over with, the better. “What do I have to do?”

Maximilian nodded toward the bed. "Go and lie on the bed, facedown." As he spoke, he began removing his greatcoat, then the full-skirted frock coat he wore under it.

Grantaire swallowed hard, and did as he was told. Somehow, watching Maximilian strip down to his shirtsleeves and untie his somber black cravat made him feel even more naked than before, despite the fact that he himself had removed nothing.

He wouldn't need to. Maximilian would only need to pull up the hem of his shirt to get access to what he wanted.

Grantaire had likely given him the idea himself, with his thoughtless quotation of Catullus. _Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo._ Maximilian had had his mouth. Now he would have his arse as well.

Something else he'd never done before, and unlike using his mouth, he doubted it was going to turn out to be almost bearable. It was going to hurt, he was sure of it.

It did, a painful, burning stretch that made him try automatically to pull away.

Maximilian dug fingers into his hips to keep him in place, and then ran what might have been intended to be a soothing hand down his side, as if he were a nervous horse. “Relax. You’ll like this.”

Grantaire’s choked-off, half hysterical laugh quickly turned into a cough, which made his muscles clench, which only made the intrusion hurt more, though Maximilian made an appreciative sound.

The half-proprietary, half-affectionate touch continued, almost worse than the burn as Maximilian pulled back and thrust in again. Grantaire wanted to snap at him to stop pretending that this was anything but what it was, but instead he bit down on the inside of his cheek and struggled not to make a sound. If he had to do this, he could at least try to bear it stoically.

Then Maximilian wrapped a hand around Grantaire’s soft cock, his cool touch almost gentle, and began to pump it in rhythm with his thrusts. He slid a thumb across the head, and Grantaire felt something die inside him as he began to harden, a slow, horrible warmth building inside him.

“Yes,” Maximilian murmured. “Just like that. I knew you would like it.” He thrust again, shifting his angle slightly, and the pain of what he was doing changed, becoming an intense thing that was not quite pleasure, but not entirely pain, either. “This is your only purpose, your only useful contribution to the cause, to serve better men. You know it – why else do you look at Enjolras like that?”

Grantaire swore through clenched teeth, his eyes watering. “Leave him out of this.” It was worse than blasphemy to drag Enjolras’s name into an act like this. Every aspect of this scene would have filled him with disgust. Maximilian’s blackmail and abuse of his fellow man, Grantaire’s servile surrender to it, the slap of flesh against flesh and the occasional small grunt Maximilian was making. The saliva Maximilian had used to ease his way, because metaphorically spitting on Grantaire wasn’t enough and so he’d had to do it literally as well.

Enjolras disdained the act of physical love, even with women. At times, he seemed even to disdain physical pleasure itself as mere indulgence; not just the sexual kind, but all forms of it, from the exhilaration of a good fight to the savor of a good meal. His ideals were enough for him. 

To see Grantaire not just submitting to this, but actually _gaining pleasure_ from his own debasement, would be the last straw that forever did away with Enjolras’s already strained tolerance of him.

“He’d never appreciate what you have to offer,” Maximilian gasped, “what you were nearly gagging for, but I can.” His movements were getting jerkier, his thrusts shallower, and then he abruptly pulled out and Grantaire felt a spray of hot liquid across his back.

It took several more minutes for Maximilian to bring him to his own completion, his hands continuing to work Grantaire’s cock despite his protests. 

Afterward, he lay with his face buried in the blankets, refusing to look at Maximilian as he used Grantaire’s shaving mirror to re-tie his cravat. Even with his best efforts, it was going to be crumpled and untidy, now that the starch had gone out of it.

His shirt was sticking to the skin of his back. It felt disgusting. _He_ was disgusting.

Maximilian said something as he left, his voice cheerful and full of false affection. Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t listen.

After a few minutes, the prospect of Gavroche walking back into find him sprawled on the bed, half-naked and stinking of sex, was enough to impel him to his feet and over to the wash basin. He threw the shirt into a corner, sponged and scrubbed at his legs and torso with the cold water, and was in his shirtsleeves with his hair still wet and dripping when Gavroche came strolling casually back in. 

He glanced from Grantaire to the rumpled bed and wrinkled his nose. “You were serious about not having money, weren’t you? I thought you students didn’t have to do things like that, stealing and stargazing.” 

Grantaire stared at him for a moment, before the child’s meaning sank in. Then he started laughing, unable to help himself. After all Maximilian’s threats and blackmail, it seemed it didn’t actually require a word to anybody to make Grantaire appear a male whore. Even children could tell what he was, despite the fact that he’d taken no money for it. “Don’t tell my landlady,” he gasped, once he’d regained the power of speech. 

Gavroche screwed his face up into a grotesque wink, and held a finger to his lips. Then he dropped down to sit cross-legged on his neatly folded pallet of blankets, and stared up at Grantaire expectantly. “So, now that you’ve got ready cash again, what are we having for dinner?”

Grantaire merely shook his head, unable to bring himself to tell this entirely un-innocent child that he had neither asked for nor been paid any money.

***


	6. Chapter 6

He was startled out of a doze by the sound of someone knocking on his door.

Grantaire lifted his head, squinting across the room at the source of the sound, and decided that it wasn’t worth the bother to get up to answer it. Let Maximilian go to the effort of opening the door himself. He certainly had last time.

The knocking went on. The thought occurred to him that it might be Gavroche, but then he dismissed it. Gavroche would not have bothered to knock. 

The boy had left yesterday, and Grantaire suspected from the absence of the blanket he’d been using as well as several of the smaller items from Grantaire’s shaving kit, presumably pocketed in order to be sold, that he wasn’t coming back. He’d left behind the basket of food he’d purchased with Grantaire’s money -- at least, the money was missing and the food was there, so Grantaire assumed it had been purchased -- sitting pointedly atop the washstand. His version of a thank you, Grantaire presumed.

Alone once more, Grantaire had settled himself against the wall last night with a bottle of wine and a secondhand copy of Nodier’s _Infernaliana_ that he’d borrowed at some point from Jehan, but ghosts and demons had failed to hold his attention, and he’d ended up finishing the bottle and falling asleep.

“Grantaire!” someone called from the other side of the door. “Open up so I can go and tell Joly you’re alive.” The tone was good-natured, despite the words, and the voice not that of Maximilian.

“L’aigle?” Grantaire called back. The word came out as a hoarse croak. He swallowed, rubbed at his bleary eyes, and staggered to his feet to go and greet his caller.

He shouldn’t be surprised that one of his friends had come to enquire about his well-being, and yet he was anyway. He had nearly grown used to the idea that he was a member of their circle on sufferance, accepted only as long as none of them knew about what he and Maximilian had done, and he wasn’t feel enough to think that he could hide that forever.

It hadn’t occurred to him that while they still remained ignorant, his friends would naturally be concerned about his sudden absence.

He opened the door to find Bossuet standing in the hallway, his trousers and the skirts of his coat wet and dripping with slush. “There you are,” he said cheerfully. “I brought rolls for luncheon. Or, well, I meant to.” He held up a basket partially filled with soggy, soot-smeared objects that might once have been loaves of bread. “They _were_ rolls, before I encountered a patch of ice and they and I both took a tumble.”

He’d intended to send him away, with the first excuse he could think of to explain why he’d been absent from their meetings, but looking at Bossuet’s dripping coat, slush-covered boots, the beads of water dripping slowly down his unprotected pate, and the poor, destroyed rolls he was still holding out, Grantaire somehow found himself stepping to the side and waving him in. “Most generous of you,” he said gravely. 

“I’ll just leave them out here,” Bossuet said, setting the basket down just outside the door. “I can take them with me when I leave, and find some rubbish heap to throw them in.”

He glanced around, taking in the state of the room, and Grantaire braced himself for a disapproving comment, aware of the crumpled and unwashed bed linens, the empty bottles scattered about the floor, and the soiled shirt still lying abandoned in the corner where he’d thrown it. “Not quite the deathbed scene I expected,” he said, and Grantaire blinked.

“We haven’t seen you in nearly a week,” he went on in explanation. “Joly was half convinced that you’d caught the influenza and died of it.”

“I’m afraid not,” he said, only half joking. “Alcohol keeps away contagion, remember?”

“I mentioned that to him, but you know how he worries.”

Grantaire shrugged, looking away. “I had a houseguest to keep me company. Short, fair-haired, and sharp-tongued.”

“We all know how you feel about fair hair and sharp tongues, but I thought your tastes leaned more towards tall.”

It was only light-hearted raillery, he knew – all of his friends knew about his admiration for Enjolras, but only Jehan knew the exact nature of his feelings – but Grantaire still felt his face heating with shame. If he ever had been worthy of Enjolras’s company, he certainly was not now. “Don’t look so excited,” he said. “It was only Gavroche.”

“I know.” Bossuet grinned at him, nudging him with an elbow as if to apologize for the joke. “He told Bahorel he was staying with you.”

He should have long since ceased to be impressed by how quickly news could travel through the city, especially the student quarter, but sometimes it still caught him by surprise. If Combeferre’s universal education had existed for Gavroche and his fellows – imagining for the sake of argument that they weren’t too busy trying to keep from starving to be able to afford even free schooling – they would likely have ended up running the country. “And yet Joly still spun theories of my imminent demise?”

“I told you.” Bossuet shrugged. “He worries.”

“He shouldn’t,” Grantaire told him, with perhaps a touch more bitterness than he ought to have. “I could give him a dozen reasons to despair of my survival before the week was out, each more self-indulgent and disreputable than the last.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s why he worries.” Bossuet glanced around the room again, his gaze coming to rest on the basket Gavroche had left. “Have you eaten yet? I’m sorry about the rolls.”

“I-“ Grantaire began, and then faltered, as he realized that he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d eaten anything. He could remember what that last meal had been, but not when precisely he’d consumed it. Had he eaten at all yesterday, or only had wine?

At the moment, with his head still aching from the previous night, the idea of food made him feel faintly sick. But Bossuet looked so crestfallen over his failed attempt to bring breakfast that he swallowed hard and tried to set that aside. “I was just about to. Would you care to join me?”

The two of them ended up perched on the edge of Grantaire’s bed, there being no other seating available. Grantaire forced himself to take a few bites of bread, for the purposes of being sociable, and then abandoned the effort in favor of simply watching Bossuet eat. He’d attempt food again later, he decided, after his stomach had a chance to settle.

“You’ve been secreting yourself away in here all week,” Bossuet said, after a few minutes. “You should come out with us. There’s to be an epic battle in the snow, medical students against law students.”

When Grantaire pointed out that he had studied neither, Bossuet shrugged, nearly dropping his lunch, and told him that since Bahorel was taking the medical side, he and Courfeyrac were to be left to uphold the honor of the law all alone, against the arrayed forces of Combeferre, Joly, and Bahorel. “Unless you come to assist us, or Courfeyrac can convince Enjolras to participate, we are sure to lose.”

“Convince our dear leader to waste an entire afternoon in pointless frivolity?”

“You’ll help us, then?”

The idea of going out, for a snowball fight or for anything else, held little appeal. He would have to smile, and talk to everyone, and somehow contrive to act as if nothing had happened to him. 

Grantaire shook his head. “It’s too early for such exertions, and I’ve a headache.”

Bossuet frowned little. “Grantaire, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

“Precisely. Entirely too early.” He attempted a smile. “Besides, aren’t we all a little old for a snowball fight?”

“One is never,” Bossuet said with false gravitas, “too old for a snowball fight. When you’re an old man of twenty-seven like me, you’ll be wise enough to know that.”

“Well, perhaps I’m too great a fool for snow battles.” Before Bossuet could attempt to persuade him further, he added, “I’ve a headache already; I don’t think getting face-fulls of snow will improve it, nor will having Bahorel put snow down the back of my coat.”

Bossuet seemed to study Grantaire’s face for a moment, frowning. “But we will see you tomorrow at the Musain?” he pressed. 

It was easier to agree than to argue. 

Once he was alone again, free of any need to put up a pretense, he curled back up on the floor, on Gavroche’s abandoned pallet of blankets, and wished futilely that he hadn’t sent Bossuet away.

***

Ordinarily, skies that poured down sleet and streets full of melting slush would have been enough to keep even the most dedicated servants of the republic at home – and indeed, several of Enjolras’s friends were conspicuous in their absence this morning – but the content of this morning’s newpapers had been impossible to ignore.

“They say the Duchess de Berry sponsored the plan,” Combeferre was saying, “but so far she has not been arrested, whether out of respect for rank or sex, or because the police have insufficient proof.”

Combeferre, Enjolras felt, was taking this entire affaire far too calmly. There were times, it was true, when he appreciated and relied upon his friend’s ability to serve as the voice of reason, but there were also times when a little hotblooded indignation was called for, and the discovery and very public arrest of a Legitimist conspiracy to restore Charles X’s line to the throne through bloody assassination and undo what minimal gains the July Revolution had procured was one of them.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “Bursting into a royal ball armed with firecrackers and planning to assassinate the king!” he said, sounding almost admiring. “It sounds like bad opera.” 

Feuilly snorted, full of contempt for both Legitimists and Courfeyrac’s choice of entertainment. “They were betrayed by good manners, apparently. They contacted the owner of the tavern at no. 12 Rue des Prouvaires in advance and told him to expect a large party.” 

“Let that be a lesson to us never to make reservations.”

Enjolras resisted the temptation to glare at Grantaire. Any form of attention even negative, would only encourage him. “They were betrayed by police spies,” he said, attempting to sound stern and suspecting he only succeeded in sounding prim and humorless.

“Let that be a lesson to us never to trust our fellow man.” Grantaire raised his glass is if in a toast, casually dismissing the very real fear of every republican and legitimist in Paris. 

Grantaire had been absent from the Musain for the past week or so, not that Enjolras had missed him. Were it not for the fact that it was noticeably quieter without the other man there to make a joke of everything, Enjolras told himself, he would not even have registered his absence from his usual corner.

Enjolras turned away, and snapped at Combeferre that of course the duchess hadn’t been arrested yet, aristocratic rank had its unearned privileges, and he could stand to show a little more passion over this attempt to circumvent the people’s will by restoring a rejected monarch’s heir to the throne.

Courfeyrac grinned at him. “You’re just angry that you have to be glad that the Citizen King wasn’t assassinated.”

Enjolras spluttered for a moment, but he made too much of a habit of honesty to deny it. “I… well… yes! It grates upon my very soul.”

“Charles X’s grandson on the throne would only have made our position worse,” Combeferre pointed out. He nudged Courfeyrac with an elbow, whether to convey that a little less levity was called for, or to signal appreciation of his jest at Enjolras’s expense, Enjolras wasn’t sure.

Maximilian, sitting a little ways away from the group in order to take advantage of the weak winter sunlight coming in through the room’s window, was frowning speculatively. He scratched something out upon the sheet of paper he was writing on – either academic notes or a political essay – and looked up. “If he ended up on the throne at all. The disorder that would have followed if their plan had proven a success might have worked in our favor.”

That was something Enjolras hadn’t considered, and much though it galled him to think that anything good might have come from the actions of royalists, it was a valid point, as well as something to take into consideration for the future. Their own efforts, as well as those of other republican groups, could just as easily provide opportunities for rival factions, or be the excuse the government needed to enact new repressions.

Feuilly gave a grudging nod. “It’s true. We need to stand ready to respond to actions by other groups who oppose the government, including our enemies. Even if their plans fail, there might still be opportunities in them for us.”

“Or danger.” Combeferre voiced Enjolras’s own worries. “The more unstable the government becomes, the harder they’ll put down dissent. There will be twice as many police spies wandering the streets of Paris after this.”

Enjolras voiced his agreement, only to be interrupted by a snicker from the corner.

“We have a common enemy in the Citizen King; maybe we should all make common cause together. The city is off to a good start. What do we have planned for the first week of March?”

He was referring to the fact that last month, at the beginning of January, a republican conspiracy at the Tours de Notre-Dame had been exposed and put down by the police; now February had begun with the failure of a royalist conspiracy, and if you were inclined to make light of the political struggles of the nation, it did indeed make a good set-up for a joke.

Maximilian and Feuilly’s brief moment of common feeling ended, and they began to argue about police spies and the danger posed by Legitimist plots. “The rabble are easily swayed,” Maximilian protested. “Look how eager they were to replace Charles X with the Duc d’Orleans; they might just as eagerly cheer on yet another Bourbon, always sure that this king will be better than the last.”

“When the true cause of the country’s ills is that we have a king at all,” Enjolras said. Hearing the people of Paris, who had been the backbone of the Revolution, referred to as a ‘rabble,’ was more than a little insulting, so he added, “But I do not think the country will cheer Charles or Henri or any other Bourbon anymore. Not after Lyons. We have learned better.”

Grantaire snorted. He up-ended his glass – his fourth or fifth - and poured himself another; Enjolras wondered with unworthy spite why he hadn’t simply foregone glasses altogether in favor of drinking directly from the bottle. “The people won’t actually rise, you know,” he said, with an air of one explaining the obvious to a child. “They only care about food in their bellies and their own comforts.”

“The people don’t know what’s good for them,” Maximilian said, barely glancing at Grantaire. His words were so matter-of-fact that it was a moment before Enjolras registered the anti-democratic statement for what it was.

Grantaire sneered at him. “And I suppose you do?” he asked, with almost palpable contempt.

Enjolras felt his face heat. He wasn’t sure which he was more offended by, Maximilian’s elitism or Grantaire’s cynicism. 

It was habit to respond to the more familiar provocation first. “Not everyone is like you,” he snapped at Grantaire, “looking no further than their next bottle.”

It wasn’t even noon, and Grantaire was already visibly drunk, his face flushed and his movements overly broad. He was in his shirtsleeves, his coat draped over the back of his chair, and the ends of his shirt cuffs were stained with wine. His cravat was a crumpled, half-tied mess, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in several days. 

That alone made Enjolras want to shout at him. It was bad enough that he refused to take even the weightiest of political matters seriously; worse, and even more infuriating, was the fact that he so clearly valued nothing, not even himself.

It was disgraceful. _Grantaire_ was a disgrace, not just as a republican, but as a man. It made something inside Enjolras’s stomach twist angrily, seeing him this way, even though it was far from unfamiliar. It clearly never occurred to the man that his friends might worry about him, or wish him not to make a public spectacle of himself.

“No,” Grantaire returned, sullenly defiant. “Some are hypocrites who think their efforts ‘for the good of the people’ give them the right to treat those around them however they please.”

Enjolras felt a flash of hurt at the unexpected insult, which then immediately flared into anger. How dare Grantaire question his dedication to his ideals? If the other man didn’t like being scolded for his behavior, perhaps he shouldn’t act like a drunken wastrel. “Who are you to accuse anyone of hypocrisy? You who believe in nothing and don’t even bother to pretend to take what the rest of us would fight and die for seriously?”

Grantaire smiled at him, an odd, almost mocking little curve of his lips, and lifted his wine bottle toward Enjolras in a salute. “I believe in you,” he said.

Enjolras’s face went hot, his chest tight with the struggle to suppress his rage. He searched his mind for a proper response to this false sincerity obviously put on in order to mock him, but before he could arrive at one, Grantaire upended the dregs of the bottle into his glass, drained them, and laid his head down on the table, eyes closed, as if finally succumbing to the effects of drink.

“Leave him be,” Maximilian advised, nodding toward Grantaire’s dark head, now buried in his folded arms. “What else can you expect from him?”

“Better than this,” Enjolras muttered. “And were we to speak of hypocrisy,” he said, more loudly, “we might discuss the futility of a revolution that dismisses the desires of the people because they ‘don’t know what’s good for them.’”

Combeferre said something placating about that being the reason why education for the masses was needed, so that they could properly understand what was at stake and choose for themselves. 

Enjolras ignored him, not in the mood to be placated. Thoroughly irritated with all concerned, he indulged himself by bidding Courfeyrac and Feuilly – the only two present who hadn’t said anything to annoy him – a cold farewell, and taking his leave, for once departing well before the meeting was finished.

***

Grantaire awoke reluctantly, his head throbbing, and experienced a moment of panic when he found his face pressed into his own pillow instead of the hard wood of one of the Musain’s tables. Then he realized that he was still wearing his shirt and trousers, and that said trousers were still buttoned, and relaxed.

It said something about his life these days, he reflected, that waking up to discover himself still clothed save for his shoes and cravat was a pleasant relief. 

Now that he was fully awake, he could vaguely recall Feuilly shaking him out of his doze against the table and dragging him home. He’d asked what was wrong, scolding Grantaire for getting himself into such a state and telling him that he was lucky Enjolras had let him off as lightly as he had. Grantaire wasn’t sure how he had replied, or if he had, but he couldn’t have spoken the truth, or Feuilly would have likely left him in the street.

Feuilly had been correct about one thing, though. As cutting as Enjolras had been, he could have been far colder. He far preferred Enjolras’s ire to his indifference.

Grantaire groaned and rubbed at his face, then forced himself out of bed to use the chamber pot. Standing up made the world sway around him, and he had to put a hand to the wall in order to steady himself.

He crawled back in bed gratefully. Even though he’d just woken up, his body ached with exhaustion, and he pressed his back to the warm bit of the wall where the chimney ran on the other side of the plaster and drifted off into a doze again, blanket pulled over his face.

He was jerked back to full awareness by a loud bang, and for a confused half-instant, thought that Bossuet had come to see him again, and had knocked something over.

No such good fortune was his, however.

“Back in bed again?” Maximilian sneered from the doorway, catching the door as it rebounded back from where it had struck the wall. “Do you ever do anything productive? No, don’t bother to answer that.”

He’d thought this man charming once. A little too fond of his own opinions, but a good drinking companion. All his conviction that he was prepared to see and expect the worst from humanity, and yet a smile and a bit of false friendliness had had him eating out of Maximilian’s hand.

Perhaps it hadn’t all been a lie. Maximilian didn’t treat any of the others this way. Grantaire must have done something, said something during that one drunken evening he didn’t remember to cost him the man’s respect. That, or his inherent lascivious nature had shone through to a man who knew how to look for it.

“I thought you were afraid of our friends finding out,” Maximilian went on, coming further into the room and closing the door behind him, “but if you’re now bringing the matter up yourself…”

Grantaire winced involuntarily, the sound of the door falling shut seeming very loud and final. He’d known he was going to pay for that jab about Maximilian’s hypocrisy when he made it, but the thrill of arguing with Enjolras and having the other man’s full attention had made him reckless.

Would it be so terrible if the other found out? Surely Enjolras couldn’t despise him any less than he already did, and while the others might reject him, they would never sink so low as to treat him the way Maximilian did.

A little voice whispered that he hadn’t thought Maximilian could sink that low, either, but he pushed it away. 

At least he’d have the satisfaction of seeing Maximilian cast out of their company as well; that might almost be worth it. And without the risk of exposure to hold over his head, Maximilian would have no further hold on him. He would be angry, undoubtedly, but what else could he do to Grantaire that he hadn’t already?

Maximilian removed his coat and waistcoat and hung them fastidiously over the back of the washstand. Wouldn’t want to dirty his clothing while he was dirtying himself with Grantaire.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said. “While it admittedly improves our meetings to have you absent, this won’t do. You’re making your friends worry with all of this sulking; it’s inconsiderate of you.”

“ _You_ are chiding me on manners?” Grantaire sneered, climbing out of bed and straightening up to his full height – shorter than Maximilian, but not by much. He’d halfway convinced himself to throw the man out and be damned to the consequences. “Anyone would think you’d been setting yourself up as a suitor rather than blackmailing me. Do you imagine yourself my keeper?”

He didn’t even see the backhand coming.

Grantaire staggered backwards, head ringing and face throbbing, and found himself abruptly sitting down again as the edge of the bed caught him in the back of the knees.

The headache he had been hoping to sleep off surged back with a vengeance, and he found himself fighting down nausea. 

“Watch your tongue,” Maximilian snapped.

Grantaire closed his eyes and drew a deep breath in through his nose, willing himself not to be ill. Even the possibility that it might induce Maximilian to go away was not worth the humiliation.

Then he felt familiar hands on his chest, unbuttoning his crumpled waistcoat. Maximilian slide one hand inside it, molding his palm against Grantaire’s ribs, the chill of his hand apparent even through the barrier of Grantaire’s shirt. The snow might be mostly melted, but it was still bitterly cold and damp outside, even with gloves on.

Grantaire pulled away, hands clenching into fists. “If you imagine I’ll suddenly welcome your attentions after that, you’re even more delusional than I thought you were.” 

“Calm down and be reasonable,” Maximilian said, as if he were soothing an irrational mistress. He looked down at Grantaire with visible scorn on his patrician features, and added,” I’d think you’d show a little more restraint and gratitude, considering how well I’ve kept your secrets. It’s not as if you were likely to attract attention from other quarters; no man would want an ugly drunkard with a face that’s all nose and chin, and no woman would have you without collecting payment first. You’re fortunate that I’m willing to provide you with opportunities for release.”

Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, resisting the urge shift backward on the bed until his back was against the wall. “If you’re my only option, then I’d prefer a lifetime of celibacy. Get out.”

“You want me to go to our beloved leader and confess all, then?” Maximilian asked, stressing the word ‘beloved.’ “Are you certain?”

Grantaire remembered Enjolras’s open contempt as he accused Grantaire of looking no further than his next bottle and smiled bitterly. He’d accepted long ago that he’d never see any expression in those level blue eyes but disappointment and disgust – not for his face and form, because Enjolras cared not for those things, but for the man who lay beneath them. “As if he could think any less of me than he already does. They all know what I am, in essence if not in specifics. And once you tell them how you’ve been degrading yourself with me and my perversions, they’ll know what you are.” Maximilian’s face was darkening threateningly, but Grantaire pressed on, unable to stop himself. There was something almost exhilarating in saying the words, despite the lingering dizziness in his head. Perhaps he was still drunk from the previous night after all. “Go ahead,” he challenged, “let the truth come to light. See how great their respect for you is then.”

“I told you to watch your tongue.” Maximilian’s voice was cold. “I see that you need another lesson in what you’re truly suited for.” He grasped Grantaire’s unbuttoned waistcoat and yanked it down over his arms, momentarily pinning them, and gave him a shove, knocking him flat to the mattress. “We both know you’ll enjoy it once I begin.”

Grantaire lunged back up and headbutted him in the face.

It was a mistake. Light sparked behind his eyes at the impact, his head surged with sickening pain, and then Maximilian had him by the throat, his fingers digging in painfully as he used his weight to force Grantaire back down.

Grantaire struggled to draw in air, trying desperately to pull Maximilian’s fingers away. His waistcoat ripped along one seam, freeing his arm, and he swung at Maximilian’s face. His first half-blind attempt to punch the man missed, but on his second try he landed a solid blow, his knuckles impacting Maximilian’s teeth with bruising force.

The grip on his throat loosened for a moment, letting him breathe again, and he wrenched himself free, blinking the spots from his vision.

Maximilian’s face had gone livid with rage. He spat out a mouthful of blood, the bloody spittle hitting Grantaire’s cheek, and backhanded him hard enough to set Grantaire’s head ringing again. 

“You will regret that,” he snarled. “I’m going to fuck you bloody, you little wretch.”

Grantaire’s next punch went wild, and then Maximilian was kneeling on top of him, pinning him to the bed with his weight. 

“No,” he rasped, trying desperately to buck Maximilian off. “You won’t touch me anymore, Tarquinius. I’ll not be your whore any longer!”

His eyes were hot with tears of anger, and the harder he struggled, the weaker and more exhausted he felt. His head hurt, his limbs were heavy and clumsy, and everything he knew about fighting scientifically seemed to have gone out of his head entirely.

Somehow, Maximilian forced him over onto his stomach, and then his hands were tearing at Grantaire’s trousers, yanking them down.

One arm was pinned beneath him, his wrist at a painful angle, and the other could get no leverage. Maximilian had him by the throat again, his grip tightening until Grantaire ceased kicking and struggling. Spots were swarming in front of his eyes again, and his lungs cried out for air.

Maximilian was saying something, but he couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears. Then there was tearing, stretching pain, and Maximilian panting and grunting softly into his ear, his thrusts pressing Grantaire into the mattress and his breath hot against the back of Grantaire’s neck.

His mouth and nose were buried in the wadded up bedclothes, the fabric half-choking him. This, at last, seemed to be too much for even his profligate and lascivious body to take, for he remained soft throughout. 

When Maximilian finished, spending inside him with a shuddering gasp, and at last withdrew, he felt only a dull sort of relief that it was over.

Grantaire lay there limply, eyes focused on a fold of blankets inches away from his face. His throat burned, his face throbbed, and his arse hurt nearly as much as the both of them put together. His shoulder stung from the mark of Maximilian’s teeth, and his head ached as if it were being gripped in a vise.

“You truly are a waste of a man,” Maximilian said. His voice was even now, the anger of before replaced with a measured calm. “Only good for one thing, and not even so very skilled at that. You ought to thank me for the practice.”

He cleaned himself with his handkerchief and then tossed the soiled bit of linen onto the bed, where it landed beside Grantaire’s head. “I trust we’ll hear no more insults in front of our friends? You would do better to keep your tongue still and listen when better men speak. France needs men of vision, not drunken parasites.”

There was probably some remark he could make in reply to that. He ought to think of one.

Instead, he closed his eyes and waited for Maximilian to go away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like every "Les Amis talk about things" scene in this fic could just as easily be replaced by the words "my research - let me show you it!" (though large sections of the Brick could probably be summarized similarly,so I guess it's in the spirit of canon?)
> 
> \- The Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy (no connection to Jean Prouvaire) was a Legitimist (the hard-core Royalists who wanted to boot Louis-Phillipe off the throne and bring back Charles X) plot to assassinate King Louis-Phillipe at a ball held at the French court on February 1, 1832, after which the Legimitists planned to seize power and put Charles X's grandson Henri V on the throne. (Discussed on tumblr with numerous google books citations here: pilferingapples.tumblr.com/post/44534222816/utterlydeceptivetwaddlespeak and here: pilferingapples.tumblr.com/post/80799728662 )
> 
> \- "You won’t touch me anymore, Tarquinius" - Sextus Tarquinius was the son of Tarquin the Proud, the semi-legendary last king of Rome. His rape of his cousin's wife Lucretia and her public suicide is supposed to have been the final straw that drove the Romans to overthrow their tyrannical kings and establish the Roman Republic. Renaissance artists were extremely fond of depicting this event, probably because it gave them an excuse to paint something luridly sexual.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for drug use in this chapter.

Jehan arrived at Grantaire’s lodgings quite determined that he was not going to leave again until he had managed to persuade his friend to come out with him to do something, anything. Aside from a single visit to the Musain that had apparently ended with Feuilly having to half-carry a maudlin drunk Grantaire home and pour him into bed despite the hour being barely past noon, the other man hadn’t shown his face in public for over two weeks.

Grantaire had always tended toward melancholia, but it had never been quite this severe before. He might mope about and drink more than was good for him, but it had rarely kept him from being good company or knowing how to enjoy himself. When Jehan had asked Bossuet and Joly, who had known him the longest, if this behavior was typical of him, Bossuet had shaken his head and said that he hadn’t seen its like in some time, since the days when they had first known Grantaire, immediately after he had left Gros’s salon, and that he had hoped not to see it again.

The door to Grantaire’s room was locked, and Jehan had to knock loudly upon it for some time before it was finally opened.

Grantaire opened the door a cautious crack, only a narrow sliver of his face visible through the gap. When he saw that it was Jehan on the other side of it, he seemed to relax slightly, and pulled the door open the rest of the way.

The apartment beyond was a squalid wreck, wine empty wine bottles scattered over the floor, crumpled clothing kicked into a head in the corner, and a mostly untouched basket of bread and withered winter apples growing stale and moldy atop the washstand. Jehan began to say something chiding about this state of affairs, and then Grantaire shut the door and turned to face him, and he saw the other man fully.

“Your face!” Jehan burst out, interrupting himself. “What happened?”

Grantaire’s lower lip was split, the cut ugly and scabbed-over, and a large bruise was swelling on his right cheekbone. He grinned, bruising giving the expression the look of a pained grimace, and then winced as the tear in his lip broke open again, reaching up to dab at it with the back of his hand. 

“Last evening must have been fine indeed, for I’m afraid I can’t recall.”

Jehan found himself smiling, oddly reassured by this evidence of reckless carousing. Grantaire getting into a drunken tavern brawl necessarily involved Grantaire leaving his apartment and interacting with people. 

Whatever was afflicting his friend had not gone away, however. Grantaire was holding himself stiffly, like a man expecting a blow, and his eyes kept straying to the open door at Jehan’s back. “Was there anything you wanted,” Grantaire asked, after a moment. “I think I have your _Infernaliana_ somewhere about.”

“Simply the pleasure of your company. We’ve seen far too little of that lately.”

“The weather has been wretched.” Grantaire shrugged. “When the streets are full of ice, a wise man stays at home with a hot drink.”

“Mmm,” Jehan agreed. Or a wine bottle, judging by the number scattered around. Grantaire wasn’t usually this poor a housekeeper; Jehan winced a little at the thought of his borrowed book lying somewhere at the bottom of the debris, the pages soaking up the dregs of a spilled bottle or growing soggy beneath a damp, discarded boot. There was a reason he didn’t lend his personal library out indiscriminately. Grantaire, unlike some of his friends, could usually be trusted to hand books back in a reasonable condition, but whatever was troubling him recently seemed to so preoccupy him that he had no attention left to spare for his own condition, let alone that of his possessions.

Perhaps he’d forgone shaving today simply because of the injury to his face, but Jehan doubted it.

He needed to stop brooding upon whatever was worrying him, to relax and enjoy himself, preferably in a way that didn’t earn him any more bruises.

“I was going to invite you out to supper at that tavern near the Barriere du Combat, but if it’s possible you visited there last night and caused a disturbance, perhaps I’d better not.” 

Grantaire began to agree, protesting that he was tired and his head was aching, but Jehan pressed on. “I know of a sure remedy for any leftover aches and pains,” he said, trying for a suggestive smile. He suspected that it fell flat, but Grantaire didn’t seem to notice. He was watching the open door again, arms wrapped around his torso as if he were cold.

Grantaire looked away, frowning. “I’m not good company at the moment, Jehan. Even I wouldn’t seek my own society, had I a choice.”

“Five sous worth of opium isn’t meant to be enjoyed alone.”

Something in Grantaire’s eyes sparked at that, and he straightened his shoulders a little. “Well, it will be a change from wine, I grant you that.”

The walk back to Jehan’s rooms was long and cold, but he counted it a success despite the icy chill in his ears and fingertips. Grantaire, silent at the outset, began responding to his attempts at conversation by the midway point, and by the time they reached Jehan’s door, had treated him to a several minutes long ramble about one of Carrel’s articles in _Le National_ , the iniquities of slavery in the west indies and the revolution’s hypocrisy in in regards to it, and the trite over-sentimentality of a particular narrative poem by Lamartine.

His voice was overly loud, as it often was, but there was an almost frantic note to it now, and each attempt by Jehan to interject a question about his circumstances was met by a brittle laugh and a quick change of topic. Still, he was here, in company rather than alone, and perhaps Jehan could turn the topic back to whatever ailed him later in the evening, once the opium had eased the sting of his bruises and gotten him to relax.

His own rooms were nearly as untidy as Grantaire’s, though here the debris was composed of papers and books instead of wine bottles. Jehan shifted a stack of second-hand volumes from his armchair to the floor and waved at Grantaire to take a seat.

Grantaire squinted at the top most volume, then raised his eyebrows. “La langage des Fleurs?” he asked. “Really?”

“It might be useful someday,” Jehan protested, feeling a blush rising to his cheeks. He had in fact purchased the book in the event that he ever needed to send flowers to a mistress, but Grantaire would only sneer at that, so he defended, “We might need to send one another coded messages one day, and no police spy would ever suspect floriography.”

“Is there a particular blossom that means ‘the stockpile of arms is ready, today we riot in the streets?’”

It was meant as a jest, but Jehan answered anyway. “Well, monkshood means ‘a deadly foe is near,’ and nasturtiums signify conquest.”

“A different form of conquest than the one we mean, I’ll wager.” A leer accompanied that, rendered grotesque by Grantaire’s split and swollen lip.

“No, they mean victory in battle, too. Oh, and angrec means royalty.”

“What the devil is an angrec?”

“It’s a kind of orchid, I think.”

“I suppose that’s fitting enough. Aren’t orchids parasites?”

Jehan tried to remember what the dictionary of flowers had said, but it had primarily described the symbolic meaning of each plant, not its natural history. “I don’t think so.”

Grantaire shrugged, then winced. “You promised me oblivion in a sweeter and swifter form than wine. Be a gentleman and keep your word.”

“The fruits of the poppy are meant to be experienced leisurely, not rushed,” Jehan chided, but he dug his pipe out of the drawer of his nightstand all the same, and searched through his tobacco pouch for the piece of sweet brown resin wrapped in wax paper that he’d tucked in amongst the tobacco leaves.

“That they may delight the soul, intoxicate the senses, and open one’s mind to poetry and the vibrations of the spheres.” Grantaire made a mocking flourish with one hand, then continued, “The harshest drink from the cheapest wineshop may do the same, and all your poetry will be so much incoherent babbling when read in the sober light of morning.”

Jehan looked up from his pipe, lucifer burning fitfully in one hand, and raised his eyebrows in pretended surprise. “So you’ve changed your mind, then?”

“Hand it over.” Grantaire stretched out a hand for the pipe, plucking it from Jehan’s fingers the moment it was lit. “After all this time, you ought to have learned never to mark what I say.”

They spent some time in companionable silence – Jehan couldn’t have said how long, for opium made judging the passing of time difficult – enjoying the dreamlike, floating feeling the opium brought. Eventually, it occurred to Jehan that he had had a purpose in bringing Grantaire here other than simple relaxation and enjoyment, and he dragged his scattered wits together and sat up a little straighter, surveying his friend.

Grantaire was sprawled bonelessly in the armchair, eyes closed. Even in the grip of intoxication, he looked tired and sad, his features solemn instead of content. It could have simply been the effect of the bruising, but Jehan did not think so.

“You have not been yourself lately,” he ventured, thinking to ease into the topic.

Grantaire’s answering smile had something bitter about it. “On the contrary, I’ve been more myself than ever.”

Jehan shook his head, and tried again. “You avoid your friends,” he said, ticking the points off on his fingers, “you drink more than ever…” There had been more, but he couldn’t recall it at the moment, so he went straight to the point. “What is it that’s troubling you?”

Grantaire stared intently at the pipe in his hands, turning it round and round and spilling a scattering of ash onto the arm of the chair. “You…” he began, then faltered. “Jean, you know what I am, how I…” he waved the pipe a little wildly, smoke swirling around his hand. “You know my feelings toward Enjolras.”

He stopped there, falling silent abruptly, and Jehan made a helpful, encouraging little noise. The smoke trailing from his waving hand was curiously hypnotic.

Grantaire ducked his head, avoiding Jehan’s gaze. “What if that were not the whole of it?” he mumbled, voice so low it was barely intelligible.

Ah, Jehan thought. It would have been impossible for Jehan not to know how his friend felt about their leader – dumb adoration shone from his eyes every time he looked at him – and had he any illusions as to the nature of that love, the things Grantaire had murmured the first time Jehan had been intimate with him would have banished them. 

It had only ever been a pleasant interlude for him, nothing to take seriously, and nothing that might prevent him from desiring to do the same and more with a mistress. Grantaire, as far as he or anyone else knew, had never had a mistress. 

Perhaps he had grown weary of pining chastely after Enjolras and sought other company, men willing to go farther than Jehan had been. 

The revolution had stripped away the old laws prohibiting sodomy, but such men were still widely despised. Only half-a-dozen years ago, the Marquis de Custine had been beaten half to death in Saint-Denis for attempting to solicit the attentions of a soldier. His aristocratic privilege had not protected him from the attack, nor preserved his reputation in the aftermath.

Jehan shook his head, smiling, and reached out to rest a hand on Grantaire’s arm. “It’s all right.” How could Grantaire assume he’d be disgusted? Hadn’t the two of them done enough together by now to assure him otherwise? The very same Greeks who had first invented democracy had praised such love as one of the purest forms of brotherhood. 

He leaned forward, thinking to demonstrate this in a way that would leave no room for doubt.

His lips came within a hairs-breadth from the other man’s, and then Grantaire was flinching back violently, the pipe clattering to the floor.

Jehan jerked back, startled. “It’s all right,” he repeated, holding his hands up in an attempt to soothe him. 

Grantaire’s eyes were wide, all blue iris, and he shuddered visibly for a moment before reaching up to rub at his face and pull at his loosened cravat. “Apologies,” he stammered. “I- I don’t know what came over me.”

The cravat came undone to hang limply around his neck, and Jehan could see dark smudges on his throat, still half-hidden by his shirt collar. He squinted, and they seemed to move slightly in the lamplight.

“What is that?” he asked, reaching out automatically to brush aside Grantaire’s collar and see.

Grantaire flinched again, trying to bat his hand away, and Jehan automatically started to pull back, his face flushing at forgetting himself, when the smudges resolved themselves into a set of reddish-purple bruises, fresh and ugly against the skin of Grantaire’s throat.

“Good lord, who did you fight with last night? It looks as if he tried to strangle you.”

“I told you,” Grantaire protested, tugging his collar back up. “I can’t remember.”

Jehan evaded his hands and pulled it back down, holding the fabric away from his neck. “Let me look at you. These look bad; we should take you to Combeferre or Joly, or perhaps a real—my god, is that a bite mark?” The second set of marks were further down the side of his throat, nearly at his shoulder, and though it was hard to make them out clearly without actually removing his shirt, they were very obviously the crescent-shaped result of human teeth.

Grantaire tried to duck away, his face reddening. “No, no it’s—it’s fine, don’t—stop it, don’t touch me.” He put both hands up as if to ward Jehan off, and repeated, voice cracking, “You shouldn’t touch me.”

Jehan moved back obediently, shaking his head in bemusement. “I can’t believe he bit you. What sort of man does that in a fist fight?” 

“It wasn’t a fight. It—look, I’ll go now.” Grantaire stood abruptly, swaying for a moment, and grabbed for the back of the chair. “You don’t want me here tainting your home.” 

“What-“ Jehan sputtered. None of this made any sense, and he didn’t think it was because of the opium. “Tainting my- Grantaire, calm down, you’re imagining things.” He had heard of people reacting to the drug this way, with delirium and hallucinatory ramblings, but had never actually seen it happen before.”

Grantaire seemed to visibly sag, one hand rubbing at his damaged face in a motion that spoke of defeat. “I only wish I had imagined it, but even my imagination is not that filthy or lurid.”

“What kind of a fight was this?” Jehan demanded, seriously alarmed now. “Did they rob you? Are you injured anywhere else?”

Grantaire shook his head, and pushing away from the chair, began to pace, his movements jerky. “Shall I sing like Philomela, proclaiming his actions through the wide world?” He flung his hands out, as if to encompass said world, and nearly hit Jehan in the face. “I ought to be grateful, I suppose, that he did not cut out my tongue.” 

Jehan recognized the allusion, of course – any good poet would – and a moment of utter confusion was followed by horrified nausea as the implication of the biting words registered.

Philomel, the nightingale, daughter of the king of Athens, who had been raped by Tereus of Trace and turned into a bird by the gods that she might fly free of her attacker. Deprive of her human tongue by her defiler so that she could not tell of his crimes, she spent eternity accusing him through her sorrowful song.

As fond of farfetched and elaborate metaphors as he was, Grantaire would not use such terms to describe a simple fight or robbery. Filthy and lurid, he had said. Tainted. After he had fled from Jehan’s kiss as if from the threat of a blow.

“Oh my friend,” he whispered. “What has been done to you?”

Grantaire turned away, burying his face in his hands, and let out an ugly sob. “Do not make me say it,” he begged, and Jehan’s stomach lurched once again at the shame and misery in his voice.

“But who?” he finally choked out. “How?”

But Grantaire merely shook his head, unshed tears glimmering in his eyes, and would not say.

***

Grantaire found himself staring blankly at Combeferre’s door, not entirely certain how he had ended up allowing Jehan to drag him here. Jehan had been immovable in his conviction that Grantaire needed to be seen to by a representative of the medical profession, and had simply ignored Grantaire’s insistence that it was unnecessary as if he had not spoken.

He had tried suggesting Joly as a marginally less humiliating alternative, as Joly had known him longer (and, given that it was possible that he and Bossuet shared more in bed than just Musichetta, was perhaps less likely to reject him out of hand upon learning the full circumstances of his injuries), but Jehan had objected that Joly was too prone to anxiety and might simply fall into a panic, and that anyway, Combeferre’s rooms were closer.

“This truly isn’t necessary,” Grantaire protested, a distant sort of dread beginning to replace the dazed numbness that had filled him since he’d revealed himself to Jehan. “He’ll never be able to face me again after this, and who could blame him for it?”

“Any man could, and would,” Jehan said firmly. “He won’t blame you, Grantaire, or be disgusted, or refuse to help,” all possibilities Grantaire had attempted to raise, “or anything of the sort. You were set upon and attacked! What kind of friend would turn you away?”

Grantaire didn’t bother to correct his friend’s misapprehension. He would discover the truth soon enough. Once he learned that Grantaire was nowhere near as innocent in this situation as he’d had assumed, he would likely change his mind, but Grantaire selfishly wished to put that moment off for just a little while longer.

Belatedly, it occurred to Grantaire that maybe Combeferre would not be in. But no sooner had that hope occurred to him than Combeferre opened the door.

He took in the two men standing on his threshold, and frowned. “It’s the middle of the day,” he protested. “What on earth have you two been doing?”

Grantaire’s voice stuck in his throat. Jehan, on the other hand, appeared to have no such difficulties.

“He has been attacked.” He gestured at Grantaire’s face. “May we come in? Please? It is worse than it looks, and-“

“It isn’t, truly,” Grantaire protested. He wasn’t actually injured, save for a few bruises. 

“It is,” Jehan insisted. He looked at Grantaire with sorrowful eyes, then turned to Combeferre again. “Please, someone should make sure that he’s all right.”

Combeferre’s eyes had widened behind his spectacles at Jehan’s initial announcement, and he stepped back and waved them in hurriedly. “What happened?” he demanded. “Were you robbed?”

Grantaire felt his face heat. “Not precisely,” he said. Not at all, in fact, but the truth was too humiliating to say aloud, even when half of his audience already knew.

“He was set upon,” Jehan said. “Beaten and, and worse.” He faltered, giving Grantaire an agonized look, either reluctant to expose Grantaire’s shame or too appalled by the entire subject to speak of it.

“Beaten?” Combeferre stepped closer to Grantaire, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Your face is not the worst of it, then?”

Grantaire pulled away, reaching up to touch his cheek, which began to throb again almost as soon as Combeferre mentioned it. “My face is always the worst of it,” he responded, old habit making him voice the jest before he thought better of it. “It likely looks worse than it is. I’m hardly injured, really, just a few bruises.”

Combferre was studying his eyes, however, and ignored this. “From the size of your pupils, you could have a half-dozen cracked ribs and bruising in the kidneys and not know it.”

“It was only a little opium,” Jehan said. He had seated himself on the very edge of one of Combeferre’s chairs, and now perched there staring them, as if ready to leap up at any moment.

Guilty as his concern made Grantaire feel, it was also reassuring. If Enjolras was the best, most principled man he knew, Jehan was one of the kindest. He knew, at least some of it, and instead of being disgusted as many men would have been, was upset on Grantaire’s behalf. 

Perhaps he could salvage at least one friendship from this entire debacle, even after Maximilian made his version of the situation public. Which he would do as soon as he discovered that Grantaire had accused him. 

Even the bare truth painted Grantaire in a less-than-flattering light, as an easily cowed craven who passively submitted to Maximilian’s demands and even went so far as to find pleasure and release in his own subjugation. And Maximilian was as unlikely to stick to the unvarnished truth as a rich man was to open his purse to the beggars in the Place de la Bastille. He might not have carried through on his threat to literally fuck Grantaire bloody –that that degree of roughness in the physical act combined with a lack of lubrication would likely have hurt Maximilian almost as much as it would have Grantaire himself – but Grantaire had no doubt that he would fulfill his threats to ruin Grantaire’s reputation and credit with everyone from his friends to his landlord to the letter.

“An actual doctor would be of more use to you,” Combeferre was saying. “You know I haven’t completed my studies yet.” He steered Grantaire to the remaining chair and bid him take a seat and remove his shirt, then bent to fetch a surgeon’s kit from the lower drawer of his battered secrétaire. 

It looked very professional and orderly, full of little knives and tiny mirrors on sticks and several alarmingly large-looking curved needles. It was very like Combeferre to have pre-emptively bought the tools of his future trade, Grantaire thought, just as Combeferre said,

“You have my solemn promise that I cleaned everything with Labarraque’s solution after my last visit to the dissection lab. The smell lingers otherwise.”

He probably ought to be disgusted by that, or at least disturbed. Maybe under normal circumstances he would have been, but it was difficult to feel anything other than dread and acute embarrassment as he attempted to unbutton his waistcoat with fingers so numb and clumsy they might belonged to somebody else.

The peaceful, floating sensation brought by the opium had long since worn off, but other effects still lingered.

“Who did this? It’s barbaric.” Combeferre touched two fingers to the sore spot at the junction of Grantaire’s neck and shoulder that he’d been left with courtesy of Maximilian’s teeth. 

Grantaire flinched away from the probing touch, then took a deep breath and made himself hold still. The greater a production he made out of this, the more pathetic he would appear and the longer the whole process would take. He might as well get the worst of it over with quickly.

“Maximilian,” he answered.

Jehan gasped audibly, and Grantaire instinctively hunched his shoulders, sinking lower in the chair. Jehan had been surprisingly quick to believe him when he’d thought Grantaire’s attacker a random stranger, but Maximilian was a man he respected and counted a friend. Naturally he would be reluctant to believe him capable of this. Grantaire wouldn’t have believed it himself, until it had begun happening.

“What in the name of god were you fighting about?” Combeferre asked, eyebrows winging upwards.

He had determined to say it, but he found that he couldn’t utter the words while looking into Combeferre’s face, so he directed his gaze to the open dissection kit instead. “We had a slight disagreement over my virtue. Or lack thereof, I suppose.”

“You- what?” Combeferre simply sounded baffled, rather than shocked or disgusted, and Grantaire, risking a glance at him from the corner of his eye, saw only confusion on his face.

Jehan, on the other hand, looked as if someone had stuck him. “Maximilian did this?” he asked. There was nothing in his appalled expression to indicate whether he believed Grantaire or not. “Maximilian is the one who- but he’s our friend! Your friend!”

“He is no friend of mine,” Grantaire spat, a surge of bitterness breaking through the numbness. “His respect is reserved for men he thinks worthy of it; drunken parasites and useless hangers-on are fit only to service their betters. With their mouths, and their bodies.”

“With-“ Combeferre began, then broke off, shaking his head, a quick jerk of denial. “Grantaire, you’re drugged,” he went on, placatingly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Jehan was shaking his head as well, both hands pressed to his mouth, his eyes huge. He appeared as if he were about to cry.

Grantaire felt his own eyes heat with a ridiculous urge to cry himself, as much from exhaustion as from anything else. He was so very weary. The opium was supposed to have helped, to ease his mind and let him sleep, but all it had done was loosen his tongue, and now he was here. Now he was here, with no choice but to spill everything. He had to make them believe him, because if they did, they would kick Maximilian out and it would stop, and that would make the destruction of Grantaire’s reputation, friendships, and self-image almost worth it. Even if they didn’t forsake Maximilian, or if they cast Grantaire out of their society as well, at least Maximilian would have no further hold over him. He couldn’t threaten to expose Grantaire once Grantaire had nothing left to lose.

“He came to my rooms,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and not quite succeeding. “He told me that if I didn’t allow it, he would tell my landlady that I sold myself for money. She and her husband would have had me thrown out; they wouldn’t tolerate a prostitute under their roof.” Some remnant of pride compelled him to add the second part, trying to justify his compliance, though the threats sounded weak and pathetic when he said them out loud, and himself even weaker for fearing them.

Combeferre began to say something soothing, clearly still not believing him, and then the room’s door, pulled not-quite-to, swung inward abruptly, causing all three of them to jump.

Courfeyrac strolled in, walking stick in one hand and hat in the other, looking quite thoroughly at ease. “The door was unlatched, so I came right—what’s going on; is Grantaire all right?” His relaxed, insouciant posture fell away immediately as he took in the scene, and at some other time, Grantaire might have appreciated the concern.

“Yes,” Grantaire choked out, despite the fact that he could feel betraying tears start to well from his eyes. He tried to blink them back, then reach up to rub at them with one hand when that failed. He was beyond shame now, surely? Tired. He was just so tired.

“No,” Jehan said, immediately on the heels of his statement.

Combeferre had stepped back from Grantaire when Courfeyrac entered, and now turned toward the doorway, angling his body slightly as if to put himself between Grantaire and their newly arrived friend’s curious eyes. “I don’t think we need a larger audience for this. Courfeyrac, if you and Jehan wouldn’t mind-“

This was becoming a farce, as if it hadn’t been enough of one already. “Oh, no, I might as well tell him, too, as long as I’m apparently telling everyone.” The words seemed to come from someone else, another version of himself still capable of good humor. “Why stop here; let’s inform all of Paris!” The laugh that escaped him then almost hurt, catching in his chest like a sob.

“What’s happened?” Courfeyrac sounded seriously alarmed now. “Is it the police? Do they know about-“

“No, nothing like that.” Combeferre held up his hands in a calming gesture. “Grantaire has been fighting with Maximilian, and he and Jehan have been indulging in opium. Their account of events is a little confused.”

Vindication, Grantaire reflected, was bitter indeed. “I told you he wouldn’t believe me,” he reminded Jehan.

Courfeyrac arched an eyebrow. “Maximilian forgot himself enough to start brawling with Grantaire?” He turned to Grantaire, the beginnings of a grin on his lips. “What on earth did you say to him?”

Grantaire dashed at his eyes again, wanting for a dark moment to shout at them all, to beat that innocent grin off Courfeyrac’s face. Why had he allowed Jehan to drag him here? Combeferre thought him drunk and raving, Courfeyrac was clearly not going to believe him either, and Jehan was now attempting to make irritating little shushing noises at him, petting at the air as if he wanted to touch Grantaire but didn’t dare.

He might as well say what he would. Better to speak and be called a liar than keep silent and know himself a coward. “I said no,” he said, as distinctly as he could with his mouth swollen and his tongue still thick from the remnants of opium. “I told him I wouldn’t be his _whore_ any longer.” He spat the word out, giving it the same contemptuous inflection Maximilian had. He took objection to it, as you can see.” He touched his face, where what had to be a spectacular bruise was still throbbing with a dull heat, then winced.

Courfeyrac’s eyes flew wide. “What-“ 

Grantaire rounded on Jehan, who had his hand out as if he’d been about to pat him again. “Don’t look at me like that! I’m not some poor victim. I got myself into this. You think this was the first time?” he demanded. “This was just the only time I was man enough to refuse him. He’s had me in every way he could want me, drunk and sober.”

Now Combeferre looked appalled as well; apparently enough detail had been given to satisfy him that this wasn’t some opium-induced fantasy. “Grantaire-“ He broke off, voice strangled, then continued, “How- how long has this been going on?”

The anger drained away as quickly as it had come, leaving a dull emptiness behind it. “Weeks. Nearly a month.”

Courfeyrac gaped at him. “He’s been ill-using you for-- Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I enjoyed it!” Grantaire spat. “There. Now you know what you’ve been harboring in your midst.” He slumped forward, face in hands, and wished desperately for oblivion, hating Maximilian, himself, all of it.

“A man who would abuse his friends in unspeakable ways,” Jehan said grimly. “I liked him. I thought he was good company. If I had known how he was treating you!”

The other man’s indignation on his behalf ought to have been reassuring, but all Grantaire could think at his words was that if he had had sufficient faith in his friend’s kindness, he could have told him sooner. This could all have ended days ago, if only he’d been less of a fool.

While he sat there silently, unable to look up and face them, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Jehan had begun to debate the matter hotly. Combeferre clearly wanted to believe that there was some less damning explanation, and put forward that perhaps Grantaire and Maximilian were lovers and had had a falling out, while Jehan insisted indignantly that Maximilian been preying upon an innocent Grantaire (innocent!), and Courfeyrac protested that Grantaire would surely not have done such things without being forced into it, and that they must go to Maximilian and make him give an account of himself.

“I’ve done ‘such things’ as you speak of,” Jehan said hotly. “They needn’t be shameful.”

“They are when a man has to beat his lover into it!” Courfeyrac half shouted.

Jehan was saying something melodramatic about harboring a viper in their bosom when Combeferre finally, blessedly interrupted,

“Gentlemen, I don’t think this is helping our patient.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Combeferre went on, in a low voice, “If this is true, we can’t in good conscience tolerate Maximilian’s company any longer.”

More silence, as the others presumably stared at one another over Grantaire’s head and wished forlornly that they didn’t have to deal with this dilemma.

And then Courfeyrac said the only thing that could conceivably have made Grantaire’s utter destruction as a man complete. “I think we need to tell Enjolras.”

Grantaire started to laugh hysterically again, and then he was sobbing, making a complete spectacle of himself without even the excuse of drink. A few confused minutes later, Combeferre pressed a draught of laudanum into his hands and ordered him to drink it down and go to bed – in Combeferre’s bed, despite everything Grantaire had just told them – saying firmly that there had been enough excitement for today and they would tell Enjolras tomorrow. 

Grantaire did as he was bid, too drained to protest. The other three were still talking in Combeferre’s sitting room, voices too low to distinguish the words. It would all be over tomorrow, he told himself. Maximilian had no more hold over him. He wouldn’t think about the fact that Enjolras was going to learn of his shame. 

He let the laudanum drag him under and wished desperately that he might be permitted never to awaken.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully we haven't gone overboard with the melodrama in this chapter. Also, I feel I ought to note that the authors can't even consume the mildest "Tylenol with codeine" sort of narcotic without getting sick, so we haven't the faintest idea what taking opium is actually like. 
> 
> (Also, see, that bit with Jehan & Grantaire making out early in the fic totally had a purpose and wasn't at all completely gratuitous)


	8. Chapter 8

Enjolras was halfway through the second of his morning newspapers when he was pulled away from an account of the ongoing trial of Louis Blanqui by the sound of a knock on his door.

Upon opening it, he was not surprised to find Courfeyrac and Combeferre standing together upon his threshold. The presence of Jean Prouvaire and Grantaire, standing together some few paces behind them, was rather less expected.

“Good morning,” he greeted them. “You are too late to share my breakfast, but are welcome to come in anyway.” Then, to Grantaire, “This is rather early for you, is it not?” He meant it to sound like a friendly jest, but Grantaire seemed to shrink into himself in response, as if trying to hide himself from view behind Jehan. 

Combeferre did not smile at him in response, and beside him, Courfeyrac was biting his lip with unusual anxiety. 

“This isn’t a social call,” Combeferre said. “There’s a serious matter we must discuss with you.”

Enjolras’s stomach lurched, as half-a-dozen different scenarios occurred to him. Bahorel and Feuilly had been arrested by the police, who would even now be seeking the rest of _Les Amis de l’ABC_ to round them up on charges of fomenting insurrection. Bossuet had been in some sort of terrible accident. Joly’s worst predictions had come to pass and one of their number was lying insensate with fever, dying of the influenza. Another Legitimist coup had been attempted.

“Come in,” he said hurriedly, gesturing them all inside.

They filed in silently, all four of them subdued, and Enjolras found himself in the awkward situation of having four guests and only three chairs to offer them. He didn’t bother to apologize; this clearly wasn’t the time for social niceties. 

“What has happened?” he asked.

There was a long silence, during which no one met his eyes. Then Courfeyrac and Combeferre exchanged a glance, and Courfeyrac blurted out, “It’s to do with Maximilian. It’s come to our attention that he’s been… I’m afraid there’s no polite way to say this. He’s forcing his attentions upon people.”

“He’s been seducing women?” Enjolras couldn’t imagine it, despite Maximilian’s good looks. He never spoke of women the way Courfeyrac or Grantaire did, though given that almost everything Grantaire had to say on the subject was likely false, that wasn’t much of a basis for comparison. He was a serious, dedicated man of the people, with little time for other pursuits.

“Not seducing,” Combeferre said gravely. “And not women.”

“Not women?” Enjolras echoed, feeling his face heat as the implications of that statement sank in. Maximilian was a very attractive man, whose company he enjoyed a great deal. It had never occurred to Enjolras that he might be inclined that way, and the revelation was… not the unpleasant surprise it should have been.

“Grantaire has told us some very disturbing things,” Combeferre went on.

Grantaire visibly flinched, his shoulders coming up defensively. 

“More than disturbing,” Jehan burst out. “Vilette is a snake.” He spat the words out as if just saying the name disgusted him. 

“Surely his romantic affaires are his own, well, affair?” Enjolras ventured, surprised and a little dismayed at the man’s vehemence. “His choice of partners may not be conventional, but-“

“He forced himself upon Grantaire and beat him bloody for trying to refuse him,” Courfeyrac interrupted. He gestured a little wildly in Grantaire’s direction, and looking, Enjolras saw for the first time that Grantaire was sporting a large, colorful bruise on one cheek. “He could barely speak of it. Grantaire, who is never at a loss for words about anything!”

Grantaire, thus indicated, stared at his hands and did not look up.

Enjolras felt faintly ill as the implications of Courfeyrac’s words sank in. Only the vilest of brutes treated women in such a fashion, and the fact that Grantaire was not a woman made little difference, save that the amount of violence necessary to force sexual acts upon him would be even greater.

Surely Maximilian would never-- 

“Grantaire, is this true?” he asked, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible. Perhaps there was some mistake, some misunderstanding that Grantaire was now too embarrassed or afraid to correct. Grantaire was not entirely unappealing, could be infuriatingly charming at times despite his slovenly habits and irregular features, and Maximilian was both charismatic and handsome. Perhaps it had not been as one-sided as Courfeyrac believed, and his friend had drawn the wrong conclusion after witnessing a lover’s quarrel, or--

Grantaire nodded mutely, still not meeting his eyes.

“How-“ Enjolras’s voice caught in his throat, and he swallowed. No, he thought. No, surely not. “But Maximilian has been one of our company for weeks. He’s a good man, a dedicated man.” He had dined with them, attended meetings, worked alongside them. He’d come to them from the _Société des Amis du peuple_ , had worked longer and harder in the name of revolution than Enjolras himself had. “Grantaire, this isn’t like you!” The words burst out, impelled by a sick sense of betrayal; by Maximilian, by Grantaire, by his own psyche, which found the entire idea of his colleagues engaged in the act of manly love much too intriguing. No, not love. If it were true, it had been some sick parody of the act of love. “Why would you make up such offensive lies? I know you’ve argued with him, I know you don’t believe in what we’re doing, but this? How can you say such things?” He knew, even as he said it, that Grantaire would not make such claims baselessly – what man would? – but still found himself hoping futilely that Grantaire would confess it all a drunken exaggeration or terrible misunderstanding. 

Grantaire finally lifted his head, staring up at him with hollow, red-rimmed eyes. “With great difficulty,” he answered, “for I find it’s much harder to speak of them then it was to do them. Is that not strange?” He gave a low laugh that was close to a sob. “You do not believe I would stoop that low? Do you know, I believe that’s the kindest thing you’ve ever said about me?”

Enjolras’s stomach twisted and he felt his face flush hot. Self-disgust was not an emotion he was familiar with, but at this moment, confronted with the defeated slump of Grantaire’s shoulders and the raw emotion on the other man’s battered face, he could quite cheerfully have shot himself. “Grantaire-“

Jehan took a step forward, as if on the verge of shouldering his way between them. “How can you say that?” he spat, cutting Enjolras off. “You?” He stabbed an accusatory finger in Enjolras’s direction. “He practically worships you, you know that! I’ll swear an oath by anything that you care to name that it’s the truth, and if you won’t do something about it, I will.” He looked fully capable of doing exactly that at the moment, for all his slight build and delicate features. Voice rising, he went on, “I’ll not let a man capable of such acts claim brotherhood with me!”

Combeferre laid a hand on Jehan’s arm, silencing him without a word, and said quietly, “Do you think I would lie to you? Do you think Courfeyrac would lie? About so serious a matter?”

Enjolras shook his head. “I-“ he began, a half-formed justification on his tongue, then faltered. “No, my friend, you would not.” 

He turned back to Grantaire, raising a hand to touch him and then letting it fall, unsure if such a gesture would convey sympathy or provoke entirely justified anger. “I apologize; you have indeed been wronged if he truly forced you to-“ He couldn’t bring himself to say it, his throat closing on the words, and instead burst out, “But how? _Why?_ ”

Grantaire sagged even further, his hands coming up to cover his face and his shoulders shaking. After a moment, Enjolras realized with horror that he was crying, muffled, choked-off sobs that were little more than uneven breaths. 

For a moment, everyone in the room stood still, all of them uncertain of what to do. Then Jehan moved in to put an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders, and at nearly the same moment, Courfeyrac said,

“It’s all right. You needn’t tell us the details again. If I had known—“ he broke off, shaking his head, and added, “What you must have suffered all these weeks. If only you had said something sooner.”

“All these _weeks?_ ” Sickening as the thought of one violent attack on Grantaire was, the implications of that statement were far worse. Enjolras found himself ransacking his memory for any times recently that Grantaire had appeared at the Musain looking disheveled or fresh from a fight, trying to recall if there had been any scraped knuckles or healing bruises he had attributed to boxing matches or stick fighting. He couldn’t have said; save for when Grantaire was being actively disruptive or overly loud, Enjolras paid little enough attention to him in the course of things. Too little, apparently. “How long has this been going on under my nose?” he demanded, more of himself than anyone else.

Grantaire pulled himself free of Jehan’s touch with a violent jerk. “Nearly a month,” he said, voice low and thick with bitterness. “He didn’t even have to force me the first time. After that, all he had to do was threaten to expose me.” He sniffed, rubbing at his eyes with one hand, and swallowed hard. “You imagine me a victim. I complied with him willingly enough until the end.”

“You- He-“ That did not sound willing to Enjolras. It sounded, in fact, a great deal like blackmail. It did not fit at all with the Maximilian he had known over the past few weeks, but by the bitterness and shame in Grantaire’s voice it was very clearly no lie.

“I see I’ve disgusted you,” Grantaire said. “I can’t imagine why,” he added, with heavy sarcasm. “Should I fall upon my dagger like Lucretia, so you may dip your hands in the blood and cry death to tyrants?” He laughed again, the sound edged with hysteria. “I’ll take my leave of you now; do what you will. I don’t care.”

Jehan winced, reaching for him again. “Grantaire-“ 

Grantaire slapped his hand away. “Stop touching me!” he snarled. “I’ve had enough of all of you.”

The four of them stared dumbly as he rushed from the room, leaving the door open behind him. Moments later, there came the sound of the building’s front door slamming shut.

A few moments went by in silence, and then Combeferre sighed, rubbing at the spot at the bridge of his nose where his spectacles pinched him. “That was ill done.”

Enjolras stared at the open door, feeling sick. A fine advocate of the people he was, that even his friends feared to come to him for help. Grantaire had let Maximilian blackmail him for weeks – weeks! – rather than do so, and he suspected he had only come to him now because one of the others had forced him to. And instead of offering sympathy or understanding, Enjolras had driven him away. 

Combeferre was right; it was ill done of him.

Shame was not an emotion Enjolras was well acquainted with, nor was self-doubt, but he felt them both now. He had liked and trusted Maximilian, and now he found himself in the unfamiliar position of doubting his own judgment. 

“Let that be a lesson for us,” Grantaire had observed cynically, after hearing of how the Rue des Prouvaires conspiracy had been brought down by informers, “never to trust our fellow man.”

Grantaire’s cynicism had angered him at the time, but now Enjolras could only wonder if Maximilian had already begun to prey on him at that point. 

He had trusted a man unworthy of trust and one of their group had paid the price for it. He might as well have invited a police spy into their midst.

***

“That’s a five, not a six.”

Grantaire shrugged, squinting at the little black pips, which were starting to blur into one another. “So it is. I was never much of a mathematician. I bow to your expertise in the subject.”

He flipped the tile around in the other direction, so that the correct half – the side with six pips –was touching the end of the line of play. Then he eyed the edge of the table, only a few inches away, and carefully rotated the tile sideways. “There. Your round,” he told the man at his left. “You’ll need a tile with a five, as you so cleverly observed.”

The lighting in the tavern was dim, though not enough so to successfully conceal the sticky stains on the table, left by spilled wine, beer, and some substance Grantaire couldn’t identify. He wasn’t sure if this was the third tavern he’d been to today or the fourth, or even what this particular establishment’s name was, and did not particularly care.

He had little memory of the day after leaving Enjolras’s apartment, and he hoped to have even less memory of it by the time the night was over. 

He’d like to forget the events of this morning as well, but he suspected that conversation was branded into his memory forever, along with the look of horrified disgust on Enjolras’s face.

No, he reminded himself. He wasn’t thinking about that.

The individual to his right nudged him none too gently with his elbow, and Grantaire realized belatedly that it was his round again. Three. Surely he had a tile with a three. If not, he was out… however much he’d bet.

Had he won money since sitting down in here, or lost? It was difficult to keep track; he’d always been terrible with numbers.

He placed his tile, then carefully flexed the fingers of his right hand, where the knuckles were starting to swell. He’d bruised them on a particularly large individual’s face in the last tavern – the one he’d been thrown out of – in a fight over… what had it been over? Possibly nothing at all; tavern brawls often were.

The game went on, the bottles at the table emptied and were replaced by new ones, and then, when everyone was down to two tiles, they hit that point nearly all games of dominoes arrived at, where no one at the table had a playable tile. For some reason, no one had foreseen this eventuality before the game began, and no agreement had been made beforehand about whether the man whose tiles added up to the largest number or the smallest would win.

“Perhaps,” Grantaire suggested sarcastically after a few minutes of debate, “the pot should got to the player whose number is exactly in the middle.”

The player with the highest number, a balding man in a laborer’s smock, informed Grantaire that his idea was as stupid as he was ugly.

“I am in good company, then,” he returned automatically.

“Oh, shut it,” another player said. “You can’t even tell a five from a six.” 

The balding man was still glowering at him, his displeasure intensifying as the group’s opinion swung in favor of the lowest number, on the grounds that the object of the game was, after all, to play all of one’s tiles and be left with none, which clearly meant that fewer or less valuable tiles were more favorable.

“But is a pair of single pips the least valuable tile, or the most?” Grantaire asked, more out of a deliberate desire to be difficult than actual curiosity. “An ace is, after all, the highest-ranking card in a deck, surpassing even a king. An admirably realistic rule, since any individual peasant is more useful to society at large than a king or an emperor.”

“Watch your tongue,” the balding man snapped. “I fought for the emperor at Waterloo. He was a great man.”

Watch your tongue,” Maximilian had said.

Before he knew what he was doing, Grantaire went over the table at him. There was a peculiar ringing in his ears, and he felt no pain at all in his bruised knuckles as his fist made contact with the man’s chin.

He hadn’t been able to beat Maximilian off him, but he could definitely beat this stranger’s face in.

His second swing missed as a rush of vertigo hit him, the alcohol he had consumed abruptly catching up with him. The balding man shoved him backwards, shouting something in defense of Napoleon, and Grantaire tried to catch himself on the edge of the table, failed, and went sprawling on the floor. 

He came up spitting curses and sneers about the Corsican butcher, filled with a wild recklessness that made bruises and lack of equilibrium and the sheer number of opponents immaterial. Even if he lost, what was the worst that could happen? A few bruises? He had no dignity, reputation, or much of anything else to lose. 

In the end event, he did lose, however, and badly.

Some indeterminate amount of time later, he picked himself up from the snow bank he’d staggered into when forcibly ejected from the tavern and clumsily brushed damp snow from his clothes. 

Considering the odds, he hadn’t lost too terribly. Or no more terribly than he had deserved. What did it matter, anyway? Out here was as good as in there, better, even, for the lack of company, and he still had his wine bottle, having kept hold of it when being thrown out. 

It wasn’t even that cold. Not really.

He tipped back his head and took a long swallow from the wine bottle, then pushed himself away from the building’s wall, squinting at the blurrily dancing streetlights. Time to go home. Which way were his rooms again?

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Amis are, uh, trying their best? (Sensitivity is, alas, not Enjolras's strong suit)  
> \- I think we've included references to Tarquinnus and Lucretia already, but if not: [en.wikisource.org/wiki/From_the_Founding_of_the_City/Book_1#59](en.wikisource.org/wiki/From_the_Founding_of_the_City/Book_1#59) (After Lucretia commits suicide following her rape at the hands of Roman prince Sextus Tarquinnus, her kinsmen swear a melodramatic oath on her blood to overthrow the corrupt kings of Rome)  
> \- Dominoes can be played a number of different ways. Grantaire and his drinking companions are playing a blocking game, which involves laying the tiles out end-to-end with like numbers touching.


	9. Chapter 9

Enjolras wasn’t sure whether he was pleased or relieved at how relatively deserted the Musain was that afternoon. Few patrons had braved the late February snow to sit at the tables downstairs, and even now, several hours after their arrival, the upstairs room was still empty save for himself, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and the young man - child, really - they were now interviewing.

On the one hand, the relatively privacy would make it easier to confront Maximilian when the man eventually arrived. On the other, it meant that Jehan had yet to succeed in locating Grantaire.

Considering the mood Grantaire had been in when he had run off, there was no telling what he might be doing at the moment. For possibly the first time ever, Enjolras found himself actually hoping that the other man was in some tavern trying to find the bottom of a wine bottle. He didn’t wish to consider any of the alternatives.

Their guest, both hands wrapped around a mug of chocolate – Combeferre had refused to buy him coffee or wine, saying that neither was healthy for growing children – was kicking his heels against the legs of his chair and staring around the room with open fascination. 

“I’ll wager you could be arrested just for having that,” he said, jerking his chin toward the map of the republic pinned to the back wall. “I could probably get arrested just for being in here with it.” There was a note of admiration in his voice, as if this degree of illegality made their enterprise automatically worthy of respect.

“Citizen Gavroche,” Courfeyrac said, with all the seriousness he would normally assume to address a learned professor, “are you acquainted with a certain Maximilian Vilette?”

Gavroche wrinkled his nose. “Tall, blond gent, thinks he’s too good to pay whores?”

“You’ve… how do you know this?’ Combeferre asked carefully, presumably having just had the same disturbing thought Enjolras had.

Gavroche shrugged. “I know people. One of them’s had dealing with him.”

Which statement, while less disturbing than other possible explanations, still said a lot about the boy’s living circumstances, little of it good. He couldn’t be older than ten or twelve, possibly not even that, and he spoke of prostitution as casually as any jaded old man Enjolras had ever heard.

This was the sort of thing they were fighting to end, he reminded himself. The right to liberty and education should extend to everyone, not simply those who could afford to buy them.

“Do you know him well enough to describe him to others?” Enjolras asked. When Gavroche nodded, he smiled grimly, and went on, “Good, that’s good. We have a job we would like you to do for us, citizen. One vital to the future of the republic.”

He described what he needed the boy to do, Combeferre and Courfeyrac adding in details whenever he paused. When they had finished, Gavroche nodded sagely.

“You all should’ve expected it, really. You can’t trust a man who doesn’t fulfill his business obligations.” Then he grinned, brightly, the smile transforming his thin, grimy face into that of an ordinary child’s for a moment. “Since it’s such an important message, and has to go to so many different individuals so quickly, it ought to be worth a substantial sum to deliver it.”

“We’ll pay you in advance,” Courfeyrac told him.

As Gavroche slipped out the door, their payment having already disappeared into his pockets, the stairs creaked loudly under someone’s footsteps.

Not Feuilly; he would not be able to leave his employer for at least another hour. For a moment, Enjolras was sure, with a surge of both trepidation and relief, that it was Jehan, returning with word of Grantaire. When Bahorel’s voice echoed up the stairwell an instant later, he felt faintly disappointed.

Then, as the other man – and his companion – came into view, all other emotions were swept away by the cold, pure clarity of anger.

“Mark his face,” Bahorel announced to the room with an entirely inappropriate good humor. “Look who has unbent far enough to get himself embroiled in a fistfight.” He gave Maximilian a hearty slap on the back, propelling him into the room. “We’ll make a redblooded man of you yet.”

“Oh, I very much doubt it,” Enjolras said, coming to his feet and stepping away from the table. Behind him, he could hear the scrape of chairs on the floor as Combeferre and Courfeyrac followed his lead. “I’m not sure that anything could make a man of Monsieur de Vilette.”

Maximilian’s lips thinned, his face flushing with anger, but he managed to control himself well enough to present them with what he presumably thought was a charming smile. Perhaps Enjolras might even have fallen for it, before he’d known what sort of acts Maximilian was capable of.

“I see someone’s been telling tales,” Maximilian said. “I suppose I should have known better than to trust a drunk’s discretion,” he added ruefully, half to himself, and then, as if oblivious to Combeferre’s indrawn breath and Courfeyrac’s glare, “I’m surprised to find you so narrow-minded. The revolutionary tribunal themselves decrimin-“

“Bahorel,” Enjolras said, deliberately cutting Maximilian off as if he hadn’t heard him, “what would your reaction be if you were to discover that I had been blackmailing and coercing a young lady into accepting my…” he hesitated for an instant, unable to think of a proper word for the distasteful thing he was trying to describe, and finally settled on, “amorous attentions. And then, when she could bear it no more and attempted to refuse me, fell upon her and beat her and took what I wanted from her by force.”

Bahorel took a step away from Maximilian, folding his arms across his chest in a way that made it subtly obvious that he was the largest person in the room. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “What young lady?”

It was unrealistic, certainly, and too late now for any attempt at making amends, but part of Enjolras had hoped that when confronted, Maximilian would apologize, and offer remorseful explanations for how an affair he’d entered into with honest intentions had somehow gone terribly wrong. That was not, unfortunately, what proceeded to happen.

Maximilian held his hands up, palms out, shaking his head, and smiled – actually smiled! – at them. “Lady is the very last word you ought to be using, for a multitude of reasons. You shouldn’t take his word for the situation, Enjolras,” he added, his tone faintly chiding. “You know what he’s like.” 

He had thought he did. But he had also thought he’d known what Maximilian was like.

“What is all this?” Bahorel demanded of Maximilian. “What did you do?”

“Nothing that wasn’t either welcomed or well-earned,” Maximilian replied. Was there a touch of defensiveness there, or was Enjolras only hearing what he wished to?

“Yes,” Courfeyrac said, “so welcome that you had to resort to violence to get it.” He waved a hand wildly at the room around them, voice rising with rare anger. “There are any of half a dozen places in Paris you could have gone to find someone willing!”

Maximilian took a small step back; perhaps beginning to realize the gravity of the situation, or perhaps simply surprised or intimidated by this uncharacteristic outburst. “I really think you’ve mistaken the situation. If I might explain-“

Combeferre cut him off before he could get any further. “No explanations are necessary,” he said coolly. “I’ve seen your handiwork for myself. Bruises don’t lie.”

“An argument that got out of hand-“

Enjolras had only seen the damage to Grantaire’s face – he preferred not to think about what other injuries might have been concealed beneath his clothing. His face, and the raw, scraped knuckles on his right hand.

“Be silent,” Enjolras snapped. “Your guilt is written on your very face, in the bruises where our friend tried to defend himself from you!” He gestured at the bruising that surrounded Maximilian’s swollen nose. 

“What did he do?” Bahorel demanded again, in tones of serious alarm now. “Was it Musichetta? That little hatmaker’s apprentice from the Rue de-“

“Friend?” Maximilian sneered. “He contributes nothing to our cause and hangs around our group like a parasite. You don’t even like him!”

Enjolras automatically wanted to respond that that wasn’t true, but that wasn’t actually the point. “Every man is entitled to the same degree of dignity whether I personally like them or no. Otherwise all we do here has no meaning.”

“You make this sound far more serious than it is,” Maximilian protested. “You really must let me explain; then you’ll understand-“

“We’re not interested in your excuses,” Enjolras interrupted.

“I am,” Bahorel announced. “I want an explanation for what in the name of god you all are talking about. Let me see if I can get this straight. He,” he jabbed a thumb at Maximilian, “did something unspeakable to a young lady and Grantaire caught him in the act and challenged him over it and somehow managed to lose to him in a fistfight despite the fact that he could likely box circles around anyone in this room other than myself, and then reported back to you about what he’d seen.” He turned to Maximilian. “How drunk _was_ he? I’d put ten francs on him over you in a fight.”

“You see?” Maximilian said to the rest of them, gesturing at Bahorel. “If my attentions, as you put it, were truly unwelcome, I would have been quite unable to press the point.”

Bahorel ignored this, still addressing the rest of them. “And so the three of you decided to have your own revolutionary tribunal without telling the rest of us and pass judgment based on the secondhand account of someone who isn’t even here?” He had never, Enjolras thought, sounded more like one of the lawyers he so despised. “Where’s Grantaire? I want to hear what he has to say about this. What the devil did he catch you doing?” This last to Maximilian, almost plaintively.

“Grantaire isn’t going to be subjected to his presence any longer.” Courfeyrac practically growled the words. “Jehan was all in favor of swords or pistols at dawn,” he added to Maximilian, in a tone that was not the least bit friendly for all its conversational quality, “but he’s a romantic.”

The days of aristocrats defending their antiquated honor at sword- or gunpoint were well over, and good riddance. Even if dueling hadn’t been ridiculously old-fashioned, the potential consequences were not something they could afford. Anything that had the potential to draw extra police attention to them couldn’t be risked, not for any reason.

The agents of France’s second revolution would have to police themselves.

Maximilian shook his head, his handsome features drawn into an angry frown. “I fear you’ve mistaken the situation. There is no young lady, nor was there at any point. She is merely a rhetorical flourish invented by Enjolras.” He turned to Enjolras, and with evident disgust, for all as if he were the wronged party, went on, “You clearly imagine that nothing but brute force could induce a man to play a woman’s role in bed, and further, that no one but a violent and depraved predator could desire such a thing. I expected a more enlightened attitude.”

“Play the _what?_ ” Bahorel yelped, his voice actually cracking on the last syllable.

Enjolras winced inwardly, as their last hopes of being able to keep exactly what had transpired private vanished. Bahorel had many sterling qualities, but the ability to keep a secret was not foremost amongst them.

“This is-“ Bahorel spluttered, as shocked as Enjolras had ever seen him. “You did- To _Grantaire? Why?_ ”

“Because he all but begged me to.” Maximilian smiled then, and Enjolras felt a cold, unexpectedly violent rage fill him at the sight. “Your drinking partner has hidden-”

“That’s enough,” Combeferre snapped. “You’ve as good as confessed, and none of us wish to spend any more of our valuable time listening to you attempt to shift the blame onto your victim. If I harbored any doubts as to what had occurred, you’ve answered them.”

Enjolras took over, having used the moment to wrestle into submission his desire to personally ensure that Maximilian spoke his next sneering dismissal of Grantaire through a broken jaw. “From this moment onward, you are to consider yourself expelled from _Les Amis de l’ABC_ ,” he said, with all the authority he could muster. “I don’t want to see your face in this establishment again. And in case you imagine you’ll simply move on to a new society, let me set you straight. France – the republic – doesn’t need men like you working on her behalf. Your actions bring dishonor to our entire cause. I don’t want to see you at any republican club in Paris.”

“And how precisely to you plan to enforce this demand?” Maximilian had drawn himself up to his full height, as if trying to intimidate him; it wasn’t going to work. Enjolras had never been afraid of bullies, only disgusted by them.

Enjolras smiled at him, without mirth. “I won’t have to. Do you remember that young man you passed coming up the stairs? At this very moment, Gavroche is telling every Republican organization in Paris that one Maxime de Vilette, also known as Maximilian Vilette, is a police spy.”

Given the nature of his crimes, there was no way to warn their fellow patriots of the true nature of Maximilian’s treachery, but there was a way to mark him out as an enemy of the revolution just the same. Enjolras had had the guilt-stricken thought, when he’d been confronted with Grantaire’s humiliated confession, that he might as well have invited a police spy into their midst; let the rest of their associates assume he had Much as it galled him to further their cause with lies, in this instance, he felt sure that France would forgive them.

Bahorel drew in a sharp breath, then let it out with a little half-laughing sound, more horrified than amused. “You didn’t!”

“By this time next month,” Enjolras said, with a matter-of-fact calm that took less effort than he had expected it to, “there won’t be a republican from Lyon to Metz who will be willing to so much as spit on you in the street.”

Maximilian opened and closed his mouth silently for a moment, struck dumb by rage. “You can’t do this,” he spluttered, regaining his voice. “I’ve fought for our country as long as you have. Longer! Everyone will know it’s a lie.”

Bahorel moved to stand with the rest of them and gave Maximilian a smile of his own, something wolfish and threatening. “I know Gavroche. He’ll make it convincing.” He curled his right hand into a fist, cracking his knuckles. “I suggest you leave. You’ll want to get a head start out of Paris before anyone from your old society hears about this. They all got arrested, didn’t they?”

That was point Enjolras hadn’t even considered – Raspail and Blanqui’s arrests and the dissolution of the _Société des Amis du peuple_ had owed nothing to do with police informers – but if anything, it made their slander of Maxmilian all the more plausible. And Maximilian, by the fury on his face, clearly knew it. 

“Leave,” Enjolras said, echoing Bahorel. “I don’t want to see you here again.”

Maximilian stared at them all for a moment, his face bright red with anger. Then he whirled on his heel and stomped down the stairs. Watching him go was not as satisfying as it should have been.

***

“An informer?” Joly demanded. “But he wrote those pamphlets! He spoke so eloquently about Barrot and Perier and the ideals of Blanqui. Surely a police spy couldn’t manufacture that?”

“Perhaps he did truly believe much of what he said,” Combeferre said. “The authorities have induced men to turn upon their comrades before.” 

Bossuet frowned, glancing around the room with evident concern. “Do you think it wise to keep meeting here?” He nodded at the map of the republic, in its place of pride on the far wall. “Shouldn’t we at least take that down, in case the building is investigated?” 

“I do not believe Monsieur Vilette will be telling the police anything.” Enjolras sounded entirely confident, as well he might, given that the entire story of Maximilian’s supposed spying was a fabrication. 

Jehan could not be entirely satisfied with this method of removing Maximilian from their circle – mere social ostracism seemed a small price to pay for putting that raw, shamed look in Grantaire’s eyes – but exposing him for what he truly was would necessitate exposing Grantaire’s ordeal to the entire group, and that would surely only deepen his shame. 

He had spent the entire day searching for Grantaire, first checking at his flat, and then seeking him in every one of a dozen taverns, bakeries, and coffee shops and all over the Latin Quarter and the left bank. No one he had spoken to had remembered seeing him. 

Given the state Grantaire had been in, this was mildly alarming. Jehan had expected that he would seek the comfort of familiar surroundings, but having exhausted the list of all Grantaire’s usual haunts, he was forced to conclude that either he had been wrong, or that Grantaire had sought out some wineshop or gambling den he had not yet introduced his friends to. It was possible; he seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of knowledge of such places. 

“I knew something about him wasn’t right,” Feuilly was saying. “I must confess, I never shared your liking for him.” 

“Would that we had listened to you,” Enjolras said. “I shall be guided by your instincts in the future.” 

“As long as you aren’t guided by mine,” Bossuet joked. “If ever I bring a new man in here, he’s likely to be a police inspector in disguise.” 

Of all their group, Joly and Bossuet had known Grantaire the longest, Jehan thought. Perhaps they might have some insight into his whereabouts that he lacked. 

“Grantaire?” Bossuet shrugged when Jehan put the question to him, indicating his lack of knowledge. “I haven’t seen him since… yesterday? Perhaps the day before.” He looked to Joly, who shook his head, equally without inspiration, and then went on, “But that may be a good thing. If our friend is out there somewhere drinking and carousing, it at least represents an improvement upon hiding in his apartment and succumbing to melancholia.” 

Jehan felt unfortunately certain that it wasn’t, but could not think how to explain this without revealing at least some part of what Grantaire had suffered over the past few weeks. He was equally certain – and felt no small amount of guilt over this fact – that informing the leaders of their circle, particularly Enjolras, had made the situation significantly worse from Grantaire’s perspective. 

He had been so concerned for Grantaire’s physical heath, and then consumed with the need to bring Maximilian to some form of accounting for his deeds, that he had overlooked the fact that his friend’s misery over the entire affaire would only be deepened by the knowledge that the man he idolized knew of it. 

Jehan was staring down at the dregs of his empty coffee cup, still trying to think of a way the entire mess might have been avoided – they need not have brought Grantaire with them to inform Enjolras, but no, given his principles and his friendship with Maximilian, he might not have believed the accusations without Grantaire’s word to confirm them — when Gavroche scurried in, still shaking snow off his boots. 

The snow was coming down harder now, Jehan assumed. The child must have left a trail of melting slush all through the main room of the coffeehouse and up the stairs. 

“You’ve delivered Enjolras’s messages already?” Bahorel asked. “That was quick work!” He hooked a chair out from under the table with one foot and nodded to it. “Here, sit down and have some coffee. You look half-frozen.” 

“Don’t mind if I do.” Gavroche dropped into the chair and seized the nearest coffee cup, wrapping his hands around it without drinking. “I’m still working on the commission,” he admitted. “I’m here because I need a- that is, I’m here to do _you_ a favor.” 

“And what are we to be indebted to you for?” 

Gavroche took a sip of coffee, wrinkled his nose at the bitter taste, and then put the cup back on the table. “I found your friend. Somebody should probably haul him up out of the gutter and drag him inside before he freezes.” 

“Where is he?” Jehan was on his feet and halfway to the door before Gavroche even had a chance to reply. 

Gavroche caught up with him and took the lead, with Bahorel bringing up the rear, and they were already down the stairs and heading outside before it occurred to Jehan that he should have told the others where they were going and why. Enjolras had been occupied in arguing with Joly about the need to take precautions in the wake of Maximilian supposed spying; had they even noticed Gavroche’s arrival? 

He should have brought Joly. Who knew how badly Grantaire might be injured, or what state he might be in? 

“You know… what’s happened?” Bahorel asked Jehan in an undertone as Gavroche led them down the street. “What Maximilian did to him?” 

Jehan nodded, not wishing to elaborate. It wasn’t a matter appropriate for a child’s hearing. 

Bahorel, apparently possessed of less delicacy, went on, “He admitted it, for all the world as if there were no crime in it.” He made a disgusted sound, shaking his head. “Why would any man wish to do such a thing? Why would Grantaire allow him to?” 

“He didn’t say so, but I suspect he was incapacitated by drink the first time and incapable of protest. After that, Maximilian threatened to expose him if he didn’t submit to repeat performances.” 

They trudged through the snow in silence for a few moments while Bahorel digested that. “Enjolras let him off too easily,” he finally said. “We ought to beat him within an inch of his life for that. Grantaire would do it for one of us.” 

Jehan was less certain of this, Grantaire not being of a vengeful character, but Bahorel’s inclinations toward violence matched his own, so he did not say so. He did not make a study of pugilism, unlike some of his friends, but knocking a man down could not be so very difficult, he thought, especially not when one possessed such excellent motivation.

“This way,” Gavroche said, turning into an alley only a few streets away from the Musain. “He must have been making his way back home. I’d have just carried him the rest of the way myself, but he’s too heavy.”

Grantaire lay crumpled against one of the alley walls, as if he’d been leaning against it for support and had simply slid down it. There was snow caught in the folds of his clothing and in his hair, as if he’d been lying there for some minutes. 

Jehan fell to his knees next to him, all thoughts of vengeance forgotten. Ignoring the sound of Bahorel’s curses, he tore off his glove, fumbling for the pulse in Grantaire’s throat. He couldn’t find one, and his heart lurched in his chest for one terrible moment before he noticed the faint cloud of steam that was Grantaire’s breath and realized that the fault lay in his own fingers. 

Why hadn’t he brought Joly? Or Combeferre? Why hadn’t he kept searching for Grantaire longer? 

What he wished to do was clutch Grantaire’s still form to his chest and weep from fear, relief, and guilt. What he actually did was look up at Bahorel and say, “Let us carry him to the Musain. We need to get him inside.” 

He had been sitting indoors with a hot cup of coffee while Grantaire lay here in the snow, he thought. He should have kept searching. If Grantaire was seriously injured, he was no more going to forgive himself than he was Maximilian.

***

Convincing Bossuet and Joly that they weren’t about to be arrested as Republican conspirators took some little time, enough that Enjolras found a small, unworthy part of himself wishing it were possible to simply tell them the truth. Lies, even for a good cause, trailed numerous complications in their wake.

“Where has Bahorel gone off to?” Combeferre observed, just as the discussion seemed to be drawing to a close.

Enjolras glanced around, realizing belatedly that neither Bahorel nor Jehan was present. It occurred to him, with no small amount of consternation, that they might perhaps have left with the intention of hunting Maximilian down and physically beating a degree of remorse into him. He wasn’t sure which part of the idea was more irksome – that they had decided his version of justice was not sufficient, or that they had not invited him to participate.

No sooner had he come to this conclusion than there came the sound of shuffling and stomping from the stairs, followed by Gavroche’s voice. “Do you think he’s going to die?” And then, in less frightened and more considering tones, “If he dies, can I have his-“

“He’s not going to die,” Jehan snapped.

He and Bahorel staggered into the room, the limp form of Grantaire suspended between them, one arm slung over each man’s shoulders.

For one horrified moment, Enjolras was certain that Maximilian had tracked Grantaire down to attack him again, in retribution for Enjolras’s punishment, and then sanity caught up to him and he realized that it was much more likely that Grantaire had simply gotten into a bar fight. In the mood he had been in when he’d fled their company, he might very well have gone looking for one.

Automatically, Enjolras moved forward to help settle Grantaire’s limp form into a chair. His face was decorated with several new bruises he hadn’t had that morning, and the knuckles of his right hand were swollen and raw – and also cold as ice. He was wearing neither gloves nor hat, and his hair was damp with melting snow.

He practically reeked of wine, but given the chill of his skin and the bluish color of his lips, Enjolras wasn’t sure drink was responsible for his state of unconsciousness.

After everything that had happened, for Grantaire to freeze to death in the street was unacceptable.

“Combeferre-“ he began.

Combeferre was already crouching down by the chair to inspect Grantaire, with Joly at his heels. “I don’t believe the bruises are as bad as they appear,” he said, and Enjolras fought the desire to inform him that obviously Grantaire’s battered face and hands were the minor problem here.

Combeferre knew what he was doing. While Enjolras’s record as a law student was somewhat spotty, his friend rarely missed a medical lecture.

“I can’t wake him up,” Jehan interjected. “We tried, but nothing would rouse him.” He was holding one of Grantaire’s cold hands in his, trying to rub warmth back into the still fingers.

Combeferre nodded soberly. “He’s very likely drunk, but there’s also a possibility of general asphyxia from cold.”

“What’s-“ Gavroche began.

“It’s what Napoleon’s army all expired from in Russia,” Joly said, with slight but forgivable inaccuracy. “Why did you bring him here?” he demanded of Jehan and Bahorel. “He needs warm, dry clothes, and a fire, and to be put to bed with a hot water bottle, and-“ he broke off with a frustrated gesture. “You should have taken him to his rooms. They’re only a street or so away.”

“We’ll have make do with what’s available here,” Enjolras said. Thousands of men had perished from the cold during the army’s long retreat from Russia, victim of the emperor’s hubris. Hundreds more died in the streets of Paris every winter, particularly this one, which had brought with it the bitterest cold the city had endured in years. Grantaire, however, was not going to be one of them. He would not permit it. “Help me remove this wet coat,” he said. “We ought to get him into dry clothing.” Enjolras looked automatically to Combeferre, who confirmed this with a nod, and then he went on, “Feuilly, you’re close to his height; let’s have your coat.”

Feuilly was already stripping off his jacket, its serviceable brown wool neatly patched at the elbows. 

Jehan and Bahorel divested Grantaire of coat and waistcoat, struggling to work his limp arms free of the sleeves. His shirt, thus revealed, appeared to have been spared the worst of the damp. 

“Someone fetch me some coffee,” Joly said, holding out a hand. “We must bring his temperature back up to restore the flow of blood. The cold makes the vessels constrict, allowing bad blood to accumulate in the brain and lead to loss of consciousness.”

Combeferre nodded. “If we can rouse him enough to drink it.”

“So, is he going to die or not?” Gavroche asked. Enjolras could not tell whether the child was ghoulishly fascinated, or truly concerned and attempting to mask it with bravado. Both were possibilities.

“He’ll be fine,” Bahorel told him. “You did a good job coming to fetch us for him.”

“I di-“ the child began, and then cut himself off, “Of course I did. I’m a professional.”

“Once we get some coffee into him,” Enjolras said, choosing to ignore the byplay, “we can take him home and put him to bed with that hot water bottle, all right, Joly?”

Gavroche wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think he owns one.”

“We own three.” Bossuet proffered a cup of coffee to Joly, hissing through his teeth as some of the hot liquid splashed over the rim onto his hand. “I can go and get one.”

Grantaire’s head lolled against the back of the chair, and he sagged, held in place only by Bahorel’s grip on his shoulders. The warmth of the room had begun to melt the snow that had been caught in his hair, and now wet curls stuck to his forehead and neck.

He wore no cravat, and without his coat collar in the way, faint smudges of bruising were visible around his throat, the color not raw or red enough for it to hail from the past few hours. 

Maximilian’s handiwork. 

The sight made Enjolras feel ill. How could a man claim to hate injustice and tyranny and then treat his own comrades so?

Combeferre, Joly, and Jehan were now attempting to rouse Grantaire. Enjolras retreated slightly to allow them to work, and felt a peculiar lurching in his stomach when their efforts were at last rewarded by a groan and a clumsy attempt to swat Joly’s hand away.

“Drink this.” Joly thrust the coffee under Grantaire’s nose, holding the rim of the cup to his lips, and muttered something about vital humours and vascular constriction that nobody, least of all Grantaire, was disposed to listen to.

Grantaire mumbled something incoherent and attempted to turn his head away, but his attendants were persistent, and between them, they managed to induce him to drink most of the cup.

He was shivering convulsively now, some color seeping back into his face, and Enjolras didn’t need Combeferre’s murmured, “Good, this is good. The asphyxia is not so advanced as I feared,” to know that the worst danger was passing. He appreciated it all the same.

Grantaire abruptly pushed the coffee away, spilling the remainder of it over Joly’s fingers, and groaned, pressing a hand to his mouth. Then he doubled over and was quite violently sick, the contents of his stomach narrowly missing Enjolras’s boots.

Enjolras jumped back, biting off an oath, while Jehan and Bahorel caught Grantaire by the shoulders to prevent his falling out of the chair.

Gavroche made a disgusted sound and went to join Bossuet and Feuilly, well out of the way of any further mess.

Bahorel eased Grantaire back against the back of the chair and swore an oath of his own as the collar of Grantaire’s shirt gaped open further, revealing a crescent of dark bruising at the junction of his neck and shoulder. Even from several feet away, Enjolras could see quite clearly that it was a bite mark.

“Ah, God,” Grantaire moaned, pressing a shaking hand to his closed eyes. “Just let me die.”

Mingled relief and anger took control of Enjolras’s tongue, and he snapped, “If that’s your desire, you’ve chosen a remarkably effective way to go about it.”

Jehan winced, looking as wounded as if he’d been the one insulted, and Enjolras immediately felt guilty.

“We can take him to my rooms,” he offered. “They’re only a little further away than his ‘dreadfully cold and insalubrious garret,’” he quoted Joly, “and I do possess a hot water bottle.” It was little enough to do for a comrade, and no more than he would have offered Feuilly or Courfeyrac, had either of those worthies been taken ill. From Grantaire’s bemused expression, he suspected guiltily that it was the most extravagant gesture of friendship he had ever made to him.

Gavroche protested that Grantaire’s apartment was perfectly nice, for all as if his own lodgings had been insulted. Enjolras wondered absently why Bahorel’s pet _gamin_ had an opinion about the state of Grantaire’s apartment, then dismissed the thought. The child had an opinion about everything, including things he had only just heard of; in the rougher quarters of Paris, obvious ignorance could be a dangerous thing.

“You don’t truly want me soiling your rooms,” Grantaire groaned, closing his eyes again. “Leave be. I’ll go home and trouble you all no more for the evening.”

“You’re either more drunk than usual or the cold has affected your brain,” Enjolras told him. “Stop speaking nonsense.” He turned to Combeferre, who had skillfully avoided being vomited on and was now crouching by the chair again, attempting to take Grantaire’s pulse. “Let’s get him into Feuilly’s coat and get him to bed before he gets worse again.”

Grantaire made another feeble attempt at protest, then subsided and meekly let himself be bundled into the borrowed coat, still shivering. He smelled of wine and wet wool and the sour scent of vomit and Enjolras wanted to be angry at him for getting himself into such a state. Grantaire’s drinking had always angered him, both for the waste of a fine mind it represented and the lack of self-respect it betokened. Now, however, the familiar anger was overwhelmed by an entirely unfamiliar and uncomfortable concern.

He could have died out there in the snow with none of them the wiser.

Enjolras saw again that ugly bite mark upon Grantaire’s neck, and remembered the way his shoulders had shuddered with silent, angry sobs when he’d spoken of his treatment at Maximilian’s hands – and the way he’d thrust aside any attempts at help and run out into the cold.

Abruptly, he was doubly glad to insist that they ignore Grantaire’s protests and take him to Enjolras’s own apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- At first we wondered if Enjolras was being too harsh by kicking Maximilian out without bothering to ask for an explanation, but then we reminded ourselves that he gave Claquesous one minute to say his prayers and then actually timed him with a watch before shooting him, so... plus, this is wish fulfillment kink meme fill land.  
> \- “Asphxia from cold” - the term “hypothermia” hadn’t been coined yet in the 1830s. They knew perfectly well that it possible for people to freeze to death - there are early and mid-19th century medical journals and writings with detailed lists of the symptoms and progression of hypothermia –but they were a little shaky on the actual physiological reasons for those symptoms. Doctors at the time called the condition “general asphyxia from cold.” (For period descriptions, see: “[A treatise on the effects and properties of cold, with a sketch, historical and medical, of the Russian campaign, by Pierre Jean Moricheau-Beaupré](http://books.google.com/books?id=G0VbZ4LwgtYC&pg=PA138&lpg=PA138&dq=general+asphyxia+from+cold&source=bl&ots=dGmvDI2tnB&sig=lhzdCsoqae_PpKCFQwPY4z2d21U&hl=en&sa=X&ei=59YCVMaqJ8nxgwS5roCwAw&ved=0CFkQ6AEwCQ#v=onepage&q=general%20asphyxia%20from%20cold&f=false)” and [This 1831 article from the Lancet,](http://books.google.com/books?id=ThxAAAAAcAAJ&pg=PA817&lpg=PA817&dq=general+asphyxia+from+cold&source=bl&ots=Kfg36wMCXN&sig=a9-6TPayIngWT8icCUiCbsIUHAw&hl=en&sa=X&ei=59YCVMaqJ8nxgwS5roCwAw&ved=0CFAQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q=general%20asphyxia%20from%20cold&f=false) both courtesy of google books).


	10. Chapter 10

Every time he thought he couldn’t possibly humiliate himself further, he somehow managed to do just that. It was his one real talent, Grantaire reflected. He was a dilettante at everything else, but when it came to self-degradation, he was a true master.

As if being carried fainting into the back room of the Musain were not enough, he distinctly recalled being sick on Enjolras’s boots. Or near enough to them, anyway. 

Despite his protests that all he wished for was to go home to his own rooms, he had been dragged Enjolras’s apartment – as if he hadn’t already disgraced himself in front of him enough – and Jehan and Combeferre were now attempting to strip him of his clothing and put him to bed. 

He was so very tired of people trying to take his clothes off. 

“Why do you persist in trying to send me to bed like a child?” he complained, shoving Combeferre’s hands away from the fastenings of his trousers with a violence born of desperation. He didn’t wish to be undressed, to be _touched_ , why wouldn’t they listen? 

“Stop that,” Combeferre ordered. “You’re soaked to the skin and dangerously chilled. We have to get you out of these wet things and warm you up.” 

“Then I’ll do it myself,” Grantaire snapped, slapping futilely at Combeferre’s hands again. It was hard to make contact – his hands kept missing their target. Still, he must have managed to make his intentions known, for Combeferre finally, blessedly stepped away from him, holding his hands up placatingly.

“All right,” he said, in a reasonable, soothing tone that made Grantaire wish to hit him. “My apologies.” 

The buttons of his trousers were inordinately difficult to undo. His fingers, thick and numb, did not want to work properly, and his hands were shaking. In fact, his entire body was shaking, he realized belatedly, and abruptly he truly felt the cold for the first time. 

Perhaps he was dangerously chilled at that. He felt foolish for being so recalcitrant; his friends were once again trying to help him, and he rewarded them with petulance and ingratitude. 

Why wouldn’t these buttons come undone? His head was aching hard enough to make focusing his eyes difficult, and he had to swallow down nausea for a moment, along with an irrational urge to cry. 

He didn’t want to be here, the recipient of all this undeserved concern. He wanted his own rooms and his own bed, devoid of company, where he could hide himself away and avoid the world. Which was ironic, because he generally preferred to be around others in order to avoid himself. Most of all, he simply desired to cease existing for a while, but his attempt to do so earlier with Jehan and the opium had backfired in the most resounding way.

Unfortunately, he was fairly certain leaving was beyond him at the moment. Whether it was due to the lingering effects of intoxication and the beginnings of a hangover, or to exposure to the cold and wet, he was not sure, but Grantaire was beginning to feel more than a little unwell. The floor kept lurching under his feet, his vision blurred when he moved his gaze too quickly, and he was colder than he’d ever been. 

Once he’d finally succeeded in stripping himself down to his shirt, he all but fell onto the bed. Keeping his eyes open took effort, so he closed them instead, and concentrated on trying to keep his teeth from chattering. 

“I’ll go see if Enjolras has the hot water ready,” Combeferre said, moving toward the door. 

Once he had gone, Jehan sat down on the bed at Grantaire’s feet and began to pull off his wet stockings. “Generally,” he said, “one lies under the blankets, not on top of them.” 

“Mmmph,” Grantaire said, turning his face into the pillow. His cheek and nose were beginning to throb and sting, either from the cold or from his bruises, and the numbness was leaving his fingers, to be replaced by a painful burning sensation. 

“I know apologies are insufficient in this instance, but let me say nevertheless that I am so very sorry.” 

Grantaire opened his eyes at this – what the devil did _Jehan_ have to be sorry for? – to see his friend staring down at his hands, twisting his fingers together anxiously. 

“I should have kept looking for you. You could have died. If Gavroche hadn’t found you-“ he broke off, biting his lip, and seemed to shudder a little. 

Yet another thing way in which he’d proved a burden on his friends this evening. He hadn’t thought that they would worry about him so, had simply wanted to escape – from the eyes of others if not himself – but he should have given thought to their reactions.

He hadn’t meant to lose himself in the snow, if that was what had happened; his memories were fuzzy following the game of dominos and the fight that had come after it. Surely he had meant to return home. He might crave oblivion, but he only wanted it temporarily, not for all eternity.

He could indeed have died if they hadn’t found him. Beggars and drunkards froze to death in the streets more nights than they didn’t, this winter. 

That first night he’d gone drinking with Maximilian should have taught him to exercise more temperance. Then he’d awoken with the marks of lovemaking on his body and no memory of how he’d obtained them. This time, he might not have awoken at all. 

“If I’d frozen,” he said ruefully, “it would have been the just deserts of my own intemperance.” 

Jehan did not smile at that, as he’d been meant to. Instead, he left off wringing his hands and reached to take one of Grantaire’s in his, the touch of his fingers shockingly hot. “Next time you go out drinking, do it with one of us. Please?” 

If that was all Jehan wanted in recompense for Grantaire’s appalling display of stupidity, it was easy enough to promise. He’d drunk himself insensible in Jehan, Joly, or Bahorel’s company dozen times before, and they had never taken advantage of the situation as Maximilian had. He could trust them to see him home without attempting to turn an act of friendship into something more. “You are too good to me. All of you. It goes against human nature. Man is a selfish creature, who does not act where there is no advantage, and I offer you nothing in return. Only my poor company, which ought by rights to disgust you. God knows, I disgust myself.” 

Jehan shook his head, looking distressed. “None of us think less of you, Grantaire. You know that, right?” 

He thought less of himself, but he did not say so, instead rolling on to his side and drawing his legs up, curling into a ball. He couldn’t seem to get warm, despite the blankets Jehan was wrestling out from under him and drawing up over his legs.

His hands hurt. So did his head, and his face, and his ribs and gut – had someone hit him there? He couldn’t recall. 

What had they been speaking of? Ah, right. 

“No, Enjolras could hardly think less of me than he already did.”

“He doesn’t,” Jehan protested. “He likes you; we all do. But I am sorry we dragged you to see him. It was ill-done of us.” 

It was true that the majority of their group seemed to like him, inexplicable as that was, but he had no illusions about Enjolras’s lack of regard. He struck their leader as useless, which was a fair assessment by Enjolras’s standards. The cause was all to him, and Grantaire’s only use to the cause was to serve better men. France – Enjolras – needed men of vision, not drunken parasites. 

“It wasn’t for naught, though, I promise you. Maximilian is expelled from our fellowship. You’ll never have to see him again.” His hand was stroking Grantaire’s hair gently, not fisting it and pulling him about as Maximilian would have. It felt good, thought Grantaire would have sworn moments before that he wanted never to be touched by another again. “Did I offer you my apologies?” 

Yes, Grantaire thought, please don’t anymore. His eyes were suddenly hot with unshed tears – the only part of him that was warm. Maximilian was gone. He’d thought earlier that any amount of humiliation could be justified by that, and apparently it was so, for the relief he felt was so strong that when Enjolras appeared in the doorway to the bedroom few moments later with the hot water bottle in hand, he felt only gratitude, not shame.

A few moments later, the metal flask was wrapped in a towel and tucked under the blankets with him, and Grantaire only barely resisted the urge to embrace it to his chest and curl around it like a child with a cloth doll. 

Jehan bent down to kiss him on the forehead, the kind of kiss one would give to a child or an ageing relative. There were tears his eyes again, and he would have ashamed to be so unmanned before Enjolras except that he was finally warm.

Before he could think of a proper way to express his gratitude, he was asleep.

***

The bruises on Grantaire’s face had darkened and begun to swell, and if anything, he looked even worse than he had when he’d been carried half-frozen into the Musain. But his skin had lost its colorless pallor, and his sleep was natural and not the dangerous swoon of earlier. At least, Combeferre had said as much, and Enjolras was obliged to believe him.

Grantaire could very well have died in that alley, quietly freezing to death without any of them being the wiser. Enjolras was faintly surprised at how much that thought upset him; the death of any of his associates would have been a distressing turn of events, but he would not previously have counted Grantaire among those he was closest to. And yet the memory of his still form being carried in from the cold still filled Enjolras with anxiety, despite the solid reality of his sleeping presence. 

If asked to describe his feelings for the other man, he would have listed all of the ways Grantaire exasperated him, but he had to admit that he had missed Grantaire’s presence in the Musain recently. He had gotten used to having him around. 

A lock of Grantaire’s dark hair had fallen across his forehead, partially obscuring his face. Unthinkingly, Enjolras reached out to brush it back. 

Grantaire’s brows drew together and his face twitched. “Jehan?” he mumbled, eyes coming open. The left one was only a slit, swollen nearly shut. He blinked sleepily, his good eye focusing, and then his face seemed to light up. “Enjolras?” 

Grantaire was not a beautiful man – his visage was dominated by a hooked nose and heavy eyebrows, and a scattering of old smallpox scars pitted his cheeks – but the moment’s open surprise and pleasure seemed to transform his face, despite the battering he had received, and for an instant he looked almost handsome. 

Then the instant’s light in his eyes was extinguished, and he attempted to sit up, wincing as the movement no doubt pulled at the bruises decorating his ribs. “Of course; you had them bring me to your house. I’m sorry. This must be your bed, and here I am keeping you from it.” 

Enjolras assured him that it was no trouble. “I may sleep in the parlor. The armchair there is quite comfortable. And even were it not, I would gladly make the sacrifice for a friend’s health.” He suspected this declaration made him sound pompous, but he could think of nothing else to say. He had little experience reassuring the sick or injured. 

If only Combeferre were not asleep in the very armchair he’d just referred to. He or Courfeyrac would doubtless do a much better job of it. Or Jehan, who Grantaire had clearly expected and would likely have preferred. 

There was a moment’s awkward silence as Enjolras attempted to think of something else to say. Finally, he settled for,

“Maximilian is gone. He won’t be bothering you again.”

“Jehan told me,” Grantaire said. “Thank you. I know he was your friend-“ 

“He was no friend to any of us,” Enjolras interrupted firmly. 

“Thank you,” Grantaire repeated. 

There was a moment’s silence, while Enjolras turned his gaze from Grantaire’s battered face, which wore an expression of naked relief raw enough to make meeting his eyes uncomfortable. 

“Is there anything I can bring you,” he asked, belatedly recalling his duties as host. “Anything you need? I can fetch Jehan if you desire; he’s asleep in the parlor.” 

“No, let him sleep. He’s overcome with guilt as it is; there’s no need to disturb his rest.” 

“Shall I leave you to yourself?” If Grantaire desired solitude, it was the least Enjolras could offer him, he thought, with a small, unmanly bit of relief at the idea of escaping the awkward conversation. 

“No!” Grantaire said quickly, sitting up a little straighter. “No, just, just sit there and don’t apologize to me. Jehan keeps offering me his, despite how unnecessary it is. It’s all very awkward, having to assure him that my own foolishness is not his fault; my constitution is unused to taking on so much responsibility.”

Enjolras swallowed back the apology he had been formulating for not recognizing Maximilian for what he was. He found himself casting about for something other topic of conversation, unsure what he ought to say to Grantaire under these circumstances. Grantaire held no interest in politics, save to sneer at them, and no interest in the contents of the newspaper beyond mocking the opinions presented in it and claiming that each fresh injustice recounted only demonstrated that people were hypocrites who cared for naught but themselves, and with the example of Maximilian so fresh at hand, Enjolras did not feel empowered to contradict him. To protest that not all men were so when Grantaire’s injuries were so fresh seemed insensitive. He would save that debate for another time. 

With that thought in mind, searching his memories of their past conversations for some topic to introduce brought an unaccustomed sense of guilt; it occurred to him that almost the only words he generally said to Grantaire were insults, and that this was not entirely commensurate with the way a man ought to treat a friend. 

Why did the other man’s lack of commitment affect him so? Many people did not support a return to a republic, either content with the status quo, afraid any change would be for the worse, or unaware of how their rights were being trampled on and ignorant of the fact that it could be different. 

He ought to see Grantaire’s skepticism as a challenge, not an affront. If he could not convince Grantaire, who held affection for his lieutenants and seemed almost to admire Enjolras at times, how could he hope to convince men in power to listen to them, or the people to rise up? 

Perhaps it was that he knew Grantaire was neither afraid, not ignorant. In theory, having to consider and rebut Grantaire’s naysaying might be useful, but in practice, Grantaire seemed almost to flaunt his lack of belief, as if making a mock of their efforts and goals was amusing to him and their cause all one big joke. 

He was clearly intelligent and informed, and moreover, he _kept attending meetings_ , so why act as if there no point and everything was doomed and waste himself and his potential to be a better man? Why let Maximilian use and abuse him for weeks and say nothing to everyone else when he deserved so much better? 

It was frustrating in the extreme, but now, he recognized, was not the time to admonish Grantaire or to argue politics. 

“You should know,” Enjolras finally ventured, awkwardly, after a long silence, “I’ve told the others that Maximilian was a police spy, and that he attacked you and fought with you when you found him out. We’re telling the other Republican societies in Paris the same story.” 

Grantaire let out a crack of laughter at that. “They’ll treat him like a leper. He ought to love that.” And then, still grinning, “You are a beautiful, brilliant man. I hope I never bring your vengeance down upon myself.” 

As before, the smile transformed his face, some trick of expression making his features charming despite the bruises and swelling. There is an expression, _jolie laid_ , which one uses for a women whose flaws render her beautiful. The masculine form, beau laid, was once applied to Camille Desmoulins, who despite his deep-set eyes and prominent nose, was held to be as beautiful as Danton was ugly. Enjolras had never felt drawn to any woman, regardless of how attractive she was held to be, but looking at Grantaire now, he suddenly understood the meaning of the term. 

“Avoid attempting to die in the street,” Enjolras said dryly, pushing away thoughts about Grantaire’s dubious appeal as immaterial, “and you shall be spared my wrath.” He made a jest of it, but the words were not without truth. Now that his anxiety over the state of Grantaire’s health was passing, he wanted to shake the man for frightening them all so, and for nearly throwing his own life away through pure carelessness. 

Grantaire frowned faintly, as if Enjolras’s words had struck him with remorse – indeed, they were intended too – and then recovered, “Oh, but even the wrath of the gods is better than their indifference. Men might say there’s little difference between being cursed to take the form of a spider like Arachne and being transfigured into a bird, but had the gods ignored Philomel and Procne, they would have been unable to flee Tereus’s cruelties. And even the most famous example of Apollo’s wrath was able to make music with the gods before he died; Marsyas counted the chance to match his flute to Apollo’s lyre worth the cost of ending his days as a wineskin. Being a satyr, he no doubt had a different and more pleasant penalty in mind if he lost and had to let the god do as he willed with him, but the great Ovid himself advised filling oneself with wine as a remedy for love. I have tried to bear his advice in mind myself with only mixed success; Maximilian has obviously never read the _Remedia Amoris_.” 

“I’m hardly a god,” Enjolras objected. He might have known that Grantaire would turn the subject from his own lack of self-preservation to something altogether more frivolous. One had to be mildly impressed at his command of the classics, incoherent as the results often were. Presumably if he had read Ovid’s poems on love he would have understood what the end of the other man’s rambling little speech had to do with its beginning, but perhaps not. 

“No,” Grantaire returned, “you’ve just the face of one.” He frowned slightly, then said, “I should not have compared you to Lucius Junius Brutus. No one could ever think you dull. You are more Aristogeiton, or Harmodius, just as much a would be tyrannicide, but made to inspire the most perfect bronze in the world.” 

“It’s none of my doing.” Enjolras not infrequently heard people praise his appearance, and was used to dismissing it scornfully, since his face and form and the color of his hair owed nothing to his own efforts and were entirely unimportant compared to his goals and actions, but something about these specific circumstance, seated on the edge of Grantaire’s bed in a dimly lit room, with his hip only inches from Grantaire’s thigh, made the praise mildly embarrassing. Or perhaps it was the utterly guileless way Grantaire had said it, as if he were merely stating a fact to the air rather than speaking to Enjolras.

Grantaire shook his head, then rubbed at his temple and groaned. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?” 

Enjolras gestured toward the water pitcher and glass that waited on the nightstand. Then, when Grantaire’s extended hand threatened to knock the fragile pottery over, he rose and filled the glass himself, pressing it into Grantaire’s unsteady hand. 

Grantaire drained it thirstily, then handed the empty glass back to him. “That wasn’t quite the drink I had in mind.” 

Likely not, but what he would have preferred was not appropriate drink for invalids. “Combeferre said you’re not to have anything but broth or watered wine.”

“Cruel Harmodius. You do hate me.” 

“I’ve never hated you,” Enjolras said, feeling faintly defensive. 

Grantaire stared at him for a moment, then looked away. It was hard to be certain given the swollen and discolored state of his face, but Enjolras thought his cheeks flushed. 

“If I’ve given you that impression,” Enjolras went on, “I, ah, it was not my intention. You may frustrate and annoy me sometimes, but I still consider you a friend.” 

“Truly, an inspiring statement of devotion. Young Marius could take lessons from you.” 

Courfeyrac’s roommate ought to take lessons from someone – his knowledge of politics was abysmal, and his opinions hopelessly naïve and wrongheaded – but that wasn’t Grantaire’s meaning. There had been a young lady he kept going on about the last time he’d followed Courfeyrac to a meeting, hadn’t there?

It hardly mattered at the moment. Enjolras settled himself on the side of the bed again, studying Grantaire’s face again. His undamaged eye was bloodshot and bore a dark smudge beneath it, and when he’d touched his forehead earlier, the skin that had previously been frighteningly cold had felt slightly overwarm. Between that, the headache he’d surely earned from an evening’s hard drinking, and the vivid bruising that had been sullenly darkening along his ribs when they’d stripped him for bed, he must be feeling miserable indeed. “Combeferre said you ought to stay in bed for the rest of the day, and Joly concurs with him. You’re welcome to stay here.” 

“I’m not so ill as that; I can return to my own rooms and-“ 

Enjolras cut him off. “You could have died,” he told Grantaire flatly. “You ought not to be by yourself.” 

“The rest of the day, then,” Grantaire conceded. “Truly, though, I am more bruised than anything else. And suffering the predictable effects of over-indulgence.” 

Which only confirmed Enjolras’s thoughts of a moment ago. “How did you come by those bruises, if I might ask?” 

“Would you believe an argument over Napoleon?”

 

“When Jehan and Bahorel brought you in, I feared Maximilian had…” 

“Sought my favors again?” Grantaire curled his lip in distaste. “He never went so far as to beat me. He didn’t have to. That last time was the first time he struck me. No, it was some fellows in a tavern. We had a disagreement about who was the winner of a game of dominos, followed by further disagreement about the late Emperor’s honor, or lack thereof.” 

The practice of tyranny begot yet more tyranny. That bruise on his face might have been the first such injury Maximilian had given Grantaire, but had they not discovered what was occurring and intervened, it was unlikely to have been the last. Why, Enjolras wondered for the umpteenth time, had he not asked for help? 

Very likely he had feared to confess his participation in acts of sodomy to them, despite the fact that said participation had been less than willing. The revolutionary tribunal had struck down the laws banning such things, but men who indulged in them were still despised. 

Love between men had been welcomed in antiquity, and Enjolras privately did not see what made it so very different from the attraction between men and women, but then, women had never held much interest for him. The bonds of devotion between Achilles and Patroclus, or David and Jonathan, on the other hand, had attracted his imagination strongly as a schoolboy, before he had realized that the kind of strength of feeling he had been envisioning was not one other men generally returned, and that France, the once glorious and now fallen republic, was worthy of and in need of an even stronger devotion. 

“You could say I won these bruises in your service,” Grantaire rambled on, “striking a blow against the supporters of tyrants. My opponent protested that the Corsican was a great man, who had made France great. That France still venerates a man who plunged all of Europe into war and re-imposed slavery upon her colonies proves how short-sighted and blood thirsty men are.”

“Not all men,” Enjolras protested, and then, making an effort at wit, “You, for example, are prepared to defend the rights of man in tavern brawls everywhere.”

Grantaire’s smile in response to this sally was more gratifying than such a slight thing ought to be. “Praise from the prophet of revolution, the very disciple of Robespierre. I have risen from the ashes of disgrace to great heights.”

“You have done nothing to disgrace yourself! Any fault was Maximilian’s.”

“Oh come, I have been a disgrace to our company since long before his arrival. He saw the member of our group who offered the least and whose loss would do the cause the least harm, and whose own appetites and habits rendered his task easier, and acted accordingly.” Grantaire lost his assumed lightness of tone partway through this little speech and sounded openly bitter at the end, after which he flushed and looked away, possibly having said more than he meant to. 

“He betrayed our friendship and goodwill, yours most especially,” Enjolras said. “We all trusted him.” And then, feeling immensely daring, “Had he approached me thus, in the guise of friendship, I cannot know that I would have proved immune.” He found himself wondering even as he admitted this why he was sharing his secret with Grantaire of all people, but since Grantaire’s fear of being revealed as a lover of men and judged for his appetites had no doubt played a part in Maximilian’s abuse of him, perhaps it was fitting that Enjolras tell him. Let the admission be recompense for his own unwitting role in the bringing a predator like Maximilian into their circle.

Grantaire shook his head slightly, and said wryly, “You would have thrown him out in the street the very first time he importuned you, and told him to tell the world and be damned.” 

That was probably true, but if Maximilian had tried to seduce him rather than using force and blackmail? He would never know, and was glad he doesn’t have to. “I haven’t your gregarious nature. Combeferre tells me often that I am too quick to anger.” 

Grantaire looked unconvinced. Enjolras leaned forward, placing a hand over one of Grantaire’s where it lay atop the blankets. All men had inherent worth; it was one of the basic principles that underpinned the concept of universal rights. Maximilian had forfeited his by deliberately preying upon his fellow man, but Grantaire, for all that he often acted like a drunken reprobate, had never deliberately done any harm. “Never say that you are a disgrace,” he repeated. 

Grantaire went still at Enjolras’s touch, staring up at him for a moment with an unreadable expression. Then he smiled over-brightly and pulled his hand away. “Let us not begin ascribing to me virtues I do not possess,” he said. “You yourself have called me the same repeatedly.” 

“Your behavior is at times disgraceful, but-“ Enjolras floundered. “Ah, you frustrate me.” 

“Because I care nothing for your republic?” 

“No. Many men care nothing for politics and less than that for the rights of the people.” Which Grantaire, by his little rant just now about slavery and his friendship with them all, clearly did, for all that he claimed otherwise. Were he truly as cynical and disinterested as he maintained himself to be, he would never have offered hospitality to Gavroche. “Because you care nothing for yourself.” He realized the truth of this as he said it, the image of Grantaire’s limp, half-frozen form flashing before his mind’s eye. “You could have died yesterday,” he told the other man, unable to entirely keep the anger from his voice. “When they carried your body into the Musain, we feared that you had.” 

Grantaire looked away, face coloring again, and his hands fidgeted for a moment with the blankets. “Believe me, I am quite sensible of my own foolishness. On more than one account. I didn’t mean to give my friends such a fright.” 

He sounded truly contrite, and looked it, too, but Grantaire was frequently contrite after making a drunken disgrace of himself at the Musain or otherwise disrupting their affaires, and such contrition never seemed to prevent him from repeating the behavior. “It would grieve them to lose you,” Enjolras told him, words that should have been stern somehow coming out soft instead. Surely Grantaire knew this. Then again, given his fear that they would all turn their backs on him and cast him out from their circle if they learned what Maximilian had forced him into, perhaps he did not. And doubting his word initially could not have aided that impression, if it were so.

“Of course it would,” Grantaire said, voice somber for a moment, and then spoiled the effect by adding very dryly, “I’m the best of drinking companions and I know where all the good restaurants are. I’m generous to children and the poor, and I always return borrowed books.” 

Enjolras considered repeating again that Maximilian’s mistreatment of him was not Grantaire’s fault, and that they didn’t blame him for it, but repeating it too often might give the opposite impression, and Grantaire had said that he didn’t wish to hear more apologies. “I heard what you did for Gavroche. Most men would have handed the boy a coin and moved on.” 

“Most men would have cursed him and told him to take himself off, then spent the coin themselves. But I’ve benefited from good examples, and I’ve been well repaid.” 

You care more than you wish people to know, Enjolras thought, and wished for a moment that Maximilian had been what he seemed to be and had seduced Grantaire with honorable intentions – such a relationship might have been a moderating influence on Grantaire, as well as shaking him out of his pose of indifference. 

Thoughts of his mistress could divide a man’s attention and distract him from devoting his full powers to more important matters, as well as make him reluctant to risk himself for his country, but Grantaire devoted himself to nothing at all that Enjolras could see, and every man needed something to give him a greater purpose in life. 

Grantaire was visibly flagging now, and Enjolras could think of nothing else to say that would not sound accusing, such as telling him that he ought to try and serve as a good example himself once in a while, or that he hasn’t already said. He had already surpassed his limit for awkward conversations about emotions. 

“Combeferre will scold me for keeping you awake,” he said finally. “You’re meant to be resting.” 

Grantaire didn’t protest this time, merely nodded agreeably and closed his eyes, lying back against the pillows. 

“The sooner you recover,” Enjolras added, “the sooner you can begin attending the society’s meetings again. Your absence has been noted, and if you are going to spend the day drinking in cafes and wineshops, you ought to at least choose one where you can hear edifying conversation. If your friends can inspire you to charity, perhaps we can eventually inspire you to republicanism as well.” 

“You could inspire the most godless man to dream of heaven,” Grantaire mumbled, snuggling down into the blankets. “Like moths. The fire is brighter than any of the insects in Combeferre’s book, and they want to become…” 

He paused, and Enjolras waited for a long moment to hear what the moths wanted before he realized that Grantaire had fallen asleep, the slightest hint of a smile on his battered face.

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- According to Greek and Roman mythology, [Marsyas the satyr](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marsyas) challenged Apollo (the god of music) to a contest to see who was the better musician. In some versions of the story, Marsyas wins, and in some, Apollo does, but either way, when the contest is ended Apollo flays him alive for his hubris and his skin is turned into a wineskin. The ancient Romans considered him a symbol of free speech and a statue of Marsyas in the Roman forum was used a site to post satires and other invective.
> 
> \- Grantaire's line about wine being a cure for love is a reference to Ovid's _Remedia Amoris_ (lines 805-810), where the poet recommends that you "drink so much your cares all vanish."
> 
> \- [Aristogeiton and Harmodius](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harmodius_and_Aristogeiton) were a pair of lovers who assassinated the tyrannical Athenian ruler Hipparchus. They were venerated in ancient Athens as liberators, and a famous statue of the pair was once pointedly held up to the infamous despot Dionysius the Elder of Syracuse as “the best bronze ever cast.” Hugo compares Enjolras to both these men in the first chapter of book four of volume three, "A Group which barely missed becoming Historic."
> 
>  
> 
> Well, we didn't quite make it all the way to actual E/R, but there just didn't seem to be a good way to get them together without making the story twice as long, because Grantaire would need time to heal from Maximilian, and Enjolras, time to finish getting a clue (or several) about Grantaire's feelings and his own.
> 
> So consider this preslash and either a couple months later they totally hook up, or you can imagine canon taking its course and Enjolras realizing What Could Have Been at the last moment.


End file.
